Ten Little Soldiers
by Orrunan
Summary: Law enforcers everywhere must hate dealing with the Vongola. Ten times they tried to deal with the Famiglia that doesn't only break the laws of men, but also the laws of physics; as far as the judge and jury were concerned magical bullets do not exist.
1. Chapter 1

**Ten Little Soldiers**

Disclaimer: Not mine and I make no profit.

AN: From my reviewers' suggestion I decided to break my one ten-parts chapter into ten chapters. In hindsight this should have been the obvious solution.

* * *

**Chapter I: Lethal Chef**

**Ten little Soldier boys went out to dine;  
One choked his little self and then there were nine.**

Cienna Moretti pulled her rusty, trusty six-year-old Fiat to a stop outside a non-descript-looking

tavern and switched off the ignition. The young Ispettore of Divisione Investigativa Antimafia took a deep breath and fingered the cross Bibiana Bologna always wore around her neck. She was Bibi now, a low-level mafia goober, a spear-head in DIA's new champagne to infiltrate the Vongola Famiglia as part of the new wave.

That was what her boss had said, the late afternoon last week after calling her into his office for one of his private briefings.

"This case needs . . . finesse and flexibility, and when I think of those words, I think of you, Cienna," he had said. She was as susceptible to flattery as the next person, but Cienna had nevertheless smelled a rat. She was newly promoted, she had never been on an undercover assignment before and this was big. She had given her boss a wry face.

"All right, Domenico, what's the catch?" So her Isapettore Capo called her by first name, she was going to do the same.

She knew there was a catch. From the beginning of its existence DIA's – as well as the National Police's and local police forces' – standard operation procedure regarding the Vongola Famiglia seemed to have been "let's look the other way and hope it goes away." It wasn't corruption, as far as Cienna could tell. It wasn't fear; while maybe THE most influential mafia Famiglia in Italia the Vongola was far from the most brutal. When she had researched the fight against the crime Famiglia she had found a curious pattern. Every ten years or so a new effort would be made to put a pressure on the Famiglia, it would last from half a year to year and then the status quo would be restored. It seemed like every generation of law enforcers would try and fail, but no _reason_ for failure had been included on those reports.

Domenico Conti might have been described as good-looking once if not for his weak chin, but twenty five years of struggling to make ends meet on a low-paid civil police officer's salary and the recent stress of having two daughters needing college tuition had not helped matters. His voice was like it belonged to another person altogether. The first time Cienna had heard it she had listened to the soft, dark, hypnotic tenor entranced, wondering how a voice like that belonged to a man so weak-looking and in the end she couldn't remember a word he had said, only the tone and rhythm. She had been told this was a common difficulty on a first meeting. He was well aware of the power of his voice and his rhetoric skills were polished. He was a bit of a manipulator, but Cienna had a soft spot for him anyway.

"I have faith in your abilities and I also trust you to have a fresh, rational outlook on this matter. The older, more experienced inspectors seem to have an aversion bordering superstition regarding the Vongola," he had answered. And of course she had let him convince herself despite her misgivings. She was young and hungry for success. Italia was still very patriarchal country and just getting into Polizia di Stato had been difficult enough, let alone making it into the rank of inspector. She hadn't expected her big chance to come so soon.

She wasn't going to mess this up. She was good, just like Isapettore Capo Conti had said. She wasn't going to die.

As Fifi's cooling engine slowly ticked to a stop, Cienna checked her appearance one last time in her rearview mirror. Not that it would do her much good. Ever since she had been to elementary school the best anyone had said of her looks was that she had "great personality" and she would no doubt remain so till when she finally tottered into the Old Ladies Home – no, Retirement Home was what they were called nowadays. She was pretty certain they would find yet some new euphemism by the time she got there, assuming she made it that far.

She had long ago given up the hope to be beautiful, but she took great pride in being intelligent. And, taking a final swipe of the comb through frizzy dark brown hair, at least today she would be neat. The importance of looking professional on her first day could not be overstated. Her make-up was impeccable also so she deemed herself ready to go. She stepped out of the car, locked it, walked to the door of the tavern. The sign on it read CLOSED, but there were lights behind the closed curtains and when Cienna pressed the knob it turned easily. She knocked and opened the door cautiously.

Only good reflexes allowed her to duck in time to avoid the banana cream pie that had flown towards her face.

Cienna took in the scene: seven men of varying ages in identical black suits and dark glasses, taking cover behind various tables and other pieces of furniture, and a woman with pale red hair in a sleeveless shirt that showed off a tattoo of what Cienna thought was either a stylized scorpion or a Chinese character held a plate of pasta in her hand, ready to throw. She was quite sure pasta wasn't supposed to be that shade of green… unless it was pesto sauce that did it? No, not even then. She made a note to never eat anything in this establishment. The table clothes were red and white checkered just like the curtains and several of them had fallen to the floor, one tangled around the woman's feet in a dangerously looking way. She couldn't have been even twenty, but she certainly had presence to herself.

"Lisa was to follow me to Thailand! This is important," the woman exclaimed in a way that didn't quite count as shouting and threw the plate. It _exploded_ midair and sickly green paste flew everywhere, some of it getting stuck in Cienna's hair despite the fact that she nimbly jumped back out and out of the doorway. It smelled electric, somehow. She clawed it quickly off and tried to not think what a person had to do to make pasta like that.

"Excuse me," she said and peeked inside. "I am Bibiana Bologna. I was to report into service here." Her voice fit into a silent moment and every person in the tavern turned to look at her.

"You," the woman said solemnly and pointed towards Cienna, "are terribly cute! Can you cook?" She stepped out of the table cloth and walked towards Cienna. Her eyes, polar opposite to the lightning effects mere second ago, were sparkling like sunlight. Cienna moved her lips, but no sound came out. She knew better than well that she was not cute, especially when compared to this voluptuous woman.

"Is edibility implied?" she managed to ask; she was the uncrowned queen of microwave dinners. The woman smiled in delight and dashed forward, grabbing Cienna's hand.

"Wonderful, you are coming with me instead of Lisa. I am Poison Scorpion Bianci' it's lovely to meet you."

Bianchi Gokudera, also known as Poison Scorpion Bianchi in the mafia underworld, an assassin who specialized in poisons. Cienna widened her eyes and breathed Bianchi's moniker with reverence; Bibi was an easily impressed girl.

"I have _always_ wanted to meet you!" she gushed; Bibi was also easily exited. And passably clever too, if uneducated and still a bit naïve. "Of course I'll come if it is alright with Signor Capricorn," she said and looked at the men in suits, wondering which one of them was Bibi's new Don. The tallest one, with a bald patch in the middle of his head and an upper body that threatened to rip his suit – a comical effect when combined with the way he kept a table between himself and Bianchi and his head was bobbing up and down very eagerly – gave his consent immediately, waving his arms in wide circles.

"That's great, now let's go, the flight takes off in two hours. We can buy everything we need in Bangkok, you just need your passport" Poison Scorpion said. Cienna gave her car a lingering look, but her pass into the circles manhandled her into her own, a luxurious red ride that looked like it broke the speed limit when parked.

She wouldn't have time to inform Conti before they already were in Thailand, but she didn't think that was a problem. Maybe. Depended entirely what this woman intended to do in Thailand.

"Um, what are we going to Thailand for, if you don't mind me asking?" she questioned. The seat belt slipped from her hand when the Poison Scorpion accelerated and made a handbrake turn, speeding the tires screeching into the morning rush of Parma. Cienna was beginning to wonder if she would live to see Thailand, or indeed even the airport, when her driver cut in between a semi-trailer and a car full of kids, cheerfully ignoring the blowing horns.

"We are going to infiltrate the annual Underworld Beginners' Chef Tournament. I'm no beginner so I'm going in as your mentor," Bianchi explained. Cienna blinked and wondered what on Earth made it an _Underworld's_ Beginners' Chef Tournament. She wondered if they were training future cooks for the leaders of crime syndicates. She wondered if they were cooking rare and endangered animals. Did they not have working permits? Were they in the country illegally?

"Remember that you are upholding my reputation there. If you can't cook well just sabotage the other contestants the best you can, but don't kill anyone; that will get you disqualified. I'll be dealing in secret with the right hand man of the Chalermchai boss; he is one of the judges." Bianchi ignored the lights turning red in a bid cross roads as her eyes misted over. Cienna was squeezing her seat so hard her knuckles were white and her lips were silently moving in a prayer. She barely heard what the younger woman had to say over the sound of blood rushing in her ears.

"Ah, I remember the time I was one of the contestants. I was declared the winner by default when all other contestants found their dishes had become explosive. What a funny coincidence it was." She swerved on. Cienna wondered if she was going to even survive this.

This was a good question. The annual Underworld Chef Tournaments – for beginners, advanced chefs and masters – were where the creme de la creme of the underworld cooking industry gathered. Good cooks were respected everywhere, but the cooks that dealt with crime, organized or otherwise, took the notch and cranked it up to eleven. After all it paid to be respectful to a person who not only cooked your food, but could also use over thirty different types of knives and a good amount of other sharp, pointy objects and were likely to use them on rowdy customers.

Now it was Bangkok's turn to bear witness to the ultimate test of culinary fitness. The first day would be the Beginners' Tournament, the second Advanced Tournament and the last Masters' Tournament. There were seventy nine contestants in the same tournament with Cienna, their ages varying from fifteen to thirty. Some of them had been learning to cook as soon as they could hold a kitchen knife in their hands, others went to special culinary schools and there were even a few apprentices to famous chefs. Cienna was the kind of modern woman who was seriously housework-impaired and she was suffering from jet lag. The only things she had going for her were a little bottle of purple goop she were to hide in her apron's pocket, a secret ingredient courtesy of Bianchi, and a resolve born of a discussion she had overheard when she had left the precinct the last time before her assignment.

Cienna had disliked Orsini and Brucciani from the day she had started at DIA Parma field office. She hadn't liked the look of them, nor had she liked the way they had casually barred her access to the front door as she tried to get past them on her first day and speaking loudly of how law enforcement was no occupation for women who were naturally nurturing, unless their period was permanently haywire of course.

To their credit, this time they hadn't realized she was at earshot, so focused they had been on their little business with the other men who had been in the DIA for over ten years.

"Three Euros to one say she'll actually last a full month," Orsini had said. Two men, whom Cienna had previously liked, had handed him a few notes.

"I doubt she lasts whole two weeks," Brucciani had said. Cienna had promptly seen red, but forced herself to turn away from them.

She hadn't remembered Orsini had been one of those sent undercover in the Vongola the last go around. She hadn't heard the sympathetic, fond tone the men had used that the skeptical words had covered and she hadn't stayed long enough to hear how they had already ordered a specially printed T-shirt that said: I Went Undercover in the Vongola and Survived. She was cranky and tired and her pride had been hurt and so she ignored the growing sense of unease, the small voice that whispered in her ear that something was wrong in this very setting. She was going to ace this assignment and if acing this cooking competition could get Bianchi give her a leg up in the ranks she. Was. Going to. Ace. It.

The cooking competition was being held in a conference center which name contestant number seventy Cienna couldn't pronounce. She had been separated from Bianci, who was sitting among the audience next to the judges' stand, and led to the floor which had been turned into a sea, or at least a good-sized pond, of kitchens. It was all modern chrome coloured kitchen appliances and a whole lot of knives, pans, skillets, pots, spatulas, spoons and mountains of foodstuff. They had one hour to make a dish with including a specific theme ingredient; this year it was asparagus shoots. Cienna had never before heard the word asparagus, but the white and green shoots didn't look overly complicated. She thought that maybe she should make pasta of some kind. Even she had never managed to fail at making pasta.

An Asian woman in a sexy dark blue waitress's uniform and a frilly white apron went over the rules one more time, which boiled down to one hour, asparagus and don't kill anyone. The contestants were eying each other with appraising and cold, cold eyes that, Cienna noted with some relief, passed her by like she was air, like they could somehow tell she was an amateur. She had seen that kind of eyes before, on people who had killed or had been about to kill, and she didn't want to be on the receiving end of a knife.

Cienna was waiting for the bell to ring and thought very hard about what she was going to do. The small bottle was burning in the pocket of the purple apron Bianchi had bought her, with small black skulls on the hem. Well, not literally burning, but she still had her doubt about it, having seen the green pasta. But surely Bianchi, who had taken part in these competitions before, knew what she was doing.

Besides, she knew she didn't have a snowball's chance in hell of impressing her impromptu mentor if she didn't do something drastic. She had reached her Godzilla threshold: using the purple goop couldn't possibly make the situation worse while it just might make it better.

And the shrill bell rang, sending the contestants into a flurry of silvery cops and streaks of white aprons and silly hats, but Cienna was eyeing her supplies with some wariness. Mountains of supplies were stacked up along on her table and the instruments in order to make them useful were piled so high walking heavily put them precariously close to falling onto the floor. The second highest on the pile was a pan that looked like it could be used to make pasta sauce, with the additional benefit of being easy to reach. She rose on the tips of her toes and took the class bottle with some kind of green chaff in one hand.

She hadn't realized how sweaty her hands were before she was trying to hold a glass bottle. Cienna could take apart, clean and assemble her trusty Beretta 8000 Cougar again with her eyes closed and her hands never shook, but now the bottle started to slip from her fingers. She tried to grab it better, but it went flying towards the equally high and unstable pile of a Chinese-looking man with long moustache a few years her minor. The pile toppled over like in a bad dream, the bottle shattered against the rim of a metal dish and both the spices and the shattered glass fell into the man's pot. An apology died on Cienna's lips as the man turned to look at her with murder in his eyes. He took a knife with a long blade and rounded tip and attacked her.

Cienna hadn't become Ispettore of Divisione Investigativa Antimafia at the tender age of twenty two by learning to crochet. She dodged, but her elbow hit the side of her table painfully. Her pile swayed like a tree in a wind, but miraculously remained upright. Instead a knife was sent clattering from the table right between the man's legs. He lost his balance and had to take several long steps to not fall down on his face. It would have been better to fall, because he crashed into the table on Cienna's left side, sending dishes flying.

Cienna watched in horrified fascination as the two cook-hopefuls started to fight using knives and frying pans and spatulas. At least I'm not having difficulties with the sabotage part, she thought and put a pot full of water on the stove.

The fight was coming to and end when the water came to a boil. She added one tablespoon of coarse salt and the spaghetti. Since no rules had been laid down about using one's own ingredients she didn't bother hiding the bottle as she fished it from her pocket. It was only after she had poured half of its contents that her mind focused enough on the task at hand for her to realize that one, she should have put it on the sauce; and two, she wasn't supposed to make the spaghetti first.

But it was already too late. And the spaghetti in the pot was oozing upwards.

Cienna stared as it rose in one great lump from the pot. There was a knot in the middle of it and ropes of spaghetti stretched in tentacles from it. She stared as it crawled across her table, her head turning to follow its motion. She stared as it stopped and while it had no nose she could have sworn it was scenting the air. She stared as it suddenly pounced through the air like a yellow flying octopus, landing on the head of the contestant whose table was in front of hers. And some where between the spaghetti monster oozing out of its pan and the pouncing Cienna's higher brain function shut down to protect her from complete mental meltdown. When the monster absorbed the chicken the tiny blonde girl had marinated she turned to follow the instructions given to her like a robot. She cut the asparagus when four tables had joined forces against the monster to protect their cooking. She cooked tomatoes in melted butter when the monster, which had at that point tripled its size, brained a man in all white with his own skillet. She added basil, olive oil and garlic salt, watching as it slurped down the vegetable soup of a woman who was trying in vain to hack it in half with the biggest knife she had ever seen.

It crawled back to her just when she had finished her pasta and put in on the plate in a manner a distant part of her mind hoped was aesthetic. It was the same size as her and her kitchenette was the only one left untouched. Tables had been turned over, but the floor was suspiciously clean. Her fellow contestants were left lying on heaps on the floor. Cienna gave it a wary stare, but as it just oozed a little she took a steak and handed it over to the monster. She could have sworn it purred as it absorbed it like an amoeba. Blood was rushing in her ears again as Cienna petted its slimy head. She took the plate in her hands and started to walk towards the judges' stand, painfully aware of the silent stares of the entire audience. Her head felt like someone had stuffed it full of cotton wool and Cienna thought she was going to faint.

She didn't, or at least she thought she hadn't, but she couldn't remember how she had gotten to the hotel afterwards, or if she had indeed won. She thought she might have since she had been the only one with a dish when the bell rang the second time.

"You were wonderful, Bibi! I am so glad I took you in as my apprentice. Reborn is going to be so impressed with my teaching skills!" Bianchi rejoiced.

Reborn, Cienna wondered, where have I heard that name before? Cooking monster? Where had it gone? Was that purple goop radioactive? Am I going to turn into a mutant?

"How did the negotiations go?" was she asked out loud. Her voice was hoarse like she had been screaming for hours. She hoped she hadn't.

"Very well. Mongkut wanted to add the special ingredient into the deal as well so I got some extra concessions out of him. Reborn is going to be so impressed with my negotiating skills," Bianchi sighed.

Cienna sat on the bed with the silk linen on a very expensive hotel, listened to the hum of the air conditioning and Bianchi's chattering, trying to form a report in her mind. I don't know what the deal pertains to, Inspettore Capo, except that radioactive purple goop that changes foodstuff into monsters was added to it thanks to a demonstration of mine. A new biological weapon, or possibly nanotechnology. Or just radioactive goop. She wondered just how she was expected to explain this to a judge and jury.


	2. Sleepy in Italy

**Ten Little Soldiers**

Disclaimer: Not mine and I make no profit.

* * *

**Chapter II: Sleepy in Italy**

**Nine little Soldier boys sat up very late;  
One overslept himself and then there were eight.**

Police officer Marco di Francesco was sitting in a small café called Amore, enjoying his second cup of complicated chocolate frappuccino – not something he would have ordered had he been there with his friends – when the group of young teenagers walked in from the street. Initially he only spared a disapproving thought to the parents who would let their children to stay out so late, or couldn't enforce the curfew. It was the girl with the eye patch who made him take a second look.

Her one good eye was purple, not dark blue, but honest-to-God purple and her hair was the most peculiar bluish shade of almost-black; a very eye-catching look. And the boys with her weren't wallflowers either. Oriental-looking, silver-haired boy with an unlit cigarette between his lips and definitely oriental light-haired man who was shouting to the others (Tiramisu is EXTREMELY good, but NOTHING beats my sister's daifuku!) like they had been in the opposite ends of a football stadium. With the exception of the child in a cow print clothes and afro they were all Japanese, either handsome or outright beautiful, and the center of their attention was a boy so cute he could have been mistaken for a girl.

Marco had been blessed with an eidetic memory. What he once saw, heard or learned he never forgot and this group wasn't hard to recognize at all. This was the future don of the Vongola Famiglia, Sawada Tsunayoshi, and his most trusted men (and a woman) called Guardians according to the Vongola tradition. He turned his eyes to the tabloid he had been reading, feigning disinterest and staring at the headlines about the new Miss Sicily Dolores Paprika attending one of the Prime Minister's infamous parties without comprehension, all his attention fixed on the group taking seats somewhere behind him. Other than him they were the only people in the café at such late an hour.

"Laila's troupe is performing in London in October and she has mailed tickets to us all, plus Kyoko-chan, Haru-chan, Fuuta-kun and Reborn-san", a soft, high voice, yet not high enough to be a girl's, stated. The speaker's Italian was rather good, though his accent was thick. There was the sound of the legs of the chairs scraping against the black and white tiles of the floor.

"It's only proper that she should remember Juudaime!" a young voice already a little rough with cigarette smoke spoke and he spoke like Italian was his native language. "You helped her out of a bad fix, Tsuna." Now he had two voices identified: Sawada and most likely Gokudera, as he couldn't discount the possibility that someone else might be a smoker also. Marco stared at the picture of a beautiful woman with bleached hair and listened in, but no details, incriminating or otherwise, were offered.

"It's good to have a breath after that business with Millefiore. You gave us quite a scare, Tsuna," a good natured voice said. Now it was speaking at a normal person volume and Marco frowned before tagging it hesitantly as Sasagawa Ryohei.

"I know! I'm sorry! I still can't believe my older self would make all of you believe he was dead," Sawada babbled with clear tinge of embarrassment.

"Technically it was our older counterparts, Tsuna. Besides, it wasn't as if Byakuran gave him much of a choice," yet another voice with war, friendly inflection and strong accent answered. Not a girl's or a child's voice so it was either Yamamoto Takeshi or Kyoya Hibari.

Marco chewed on his lower lip, a habit of his when he was in deep thought. Sawada had staged his own death for some reason and a person named Byakuran, part of something called Millefiore, had been responsible for it somehow? Not entirely unprecedented, but the part about his older self and his Guardians' older counterparts? Maybe their Italian wasn't as good as it had first appeared for that didn't make much sense. He made a note to search any information there might be on Byakuran and Millefiore; he hadn't ever heard the names before.

The conversation came to a halt when the clicking of heels brought the waitress to their table. All except one ordered coffee, ordinary coffee with milk and sugar, and one toneless voice asked for green tea, turning dark when the waitress informed him that they only had black tea. All ordered different sweet confection and the waitress left to fulfill the order.

"But still, I can't help but feel there should have been some less painful option." Sawada resumed the earlier conversation. "The whole business with the box weapons still confounds me a little. How do you think they even work?" Marco was getting nuggets of information by truckload – they were very careless for Mafiosi, talking out in the open like that – but with their unsure Italian and without context it told him frustratingly little.

"_Hmph. Pain is for weakling herbivores. And why you insist on speaking this language?_" cold, colourless voice said in a language Marco didn't understand, but which he knew had to be Japanese.

"Reborn wants us to speak Italian when we are in Italy…" Sawada answered to the speaker, but he was interrupted.

"Shut your disloyal trap, Hibari! Just because you haven't got the decency…" Gokudera literally growled. Marco had always thought it to be a figure of speech, but the boy's voice resembled the bark of an angry dog a lot.

"Gokudera, please," Sawada interrupted him in turn with a long-suffering voice. "He wouldn't have suffered any anyway since he was in on the plan."

"I think the way the animals fit inside the boxes is great, and the way they change shape too. I though we had advanced technology in Japan, but the detail they put into this game is amazing!" the one who had to be Yamamoto cut in cheerfully, confounding Marco even more.

It wasn't just the strange talk he was beginning to doubt was all mistake in translation either. He had hoped to learn more about the inner workings of the Vongola's new generation when he realized that the future Don Sawada was in the same café with him, but instead he was growing more and more confused. Where was the fear and awe, the deference to Sawada? These people were speaking like school children. In fact, they acted more like a family than a Family, a group of boisterous brothers, a mature big brother – for all he looked like a little sister – and a shy sister; she hadn't put in a word yet. And what were these box weapons – with animals inside?

"You are so stupid, lawn head, though not nearly as stupid as the little cowfro." It was Gokudera again.

"Waah! Great Lambo shall crush you, Stupidera!" Lambo Bovino screamed, making Marco's lips actually twitch. There was the sound of chair scarping against the floor and the almost inaudible thud of him standing up.

"If you use a hand grenade in here, Lambo, they aren't going to serve you anything!" Sawada interrupted quickly.

A hand grenade? Marco broke sweat and prayed profusely that the boy was joking, that he could turn and ascertain he was joking, but forced himself to sit still and turned the page and appeared completely focused in the celebrity gossip of Italy.

"E-excuse me, boss, but, um." The girl's voice dropped into nothing and another voice emerged. "We seem to have a small problem, Tsuna-kun." An eerie laugh sounded and the chills that went up and down Marco's spin distracted him for a vital moment. When he realized that every voice already had a nametag to it and that was someone new it was already too late. Something sharp broke the skin at the nape of his neck and he startled, then went very still. Suddenly the café was engulfed in white mist that swiftly dimmed into darker and darker gray. _You shouldn't poke your nose into other people's business, it might get cut off. _The words didn't seem to come outside of him at all, but echo inside his head. He tried to stand, his heart hammering inside his chest and his mouth tasting like iron, but he couldn't move a muscle. Then there was only black.

Marco woke up with a start when a hand shook his shoulder gently, staring into a bright mess of red and yellow and blue. He blinked and lifted his face from the magazine, the mess of colours clearing into a picture of a blonde in a red dress standing on seashore.

"Excuse me, signor, but you seemed to have fallen asleep," a dark-skinned waitress with very short, curly hair and very high black heels said apologetically. "You will get a crick in your neck if you sleep like that."

"Thank you," Marco said and looked her into the eye, then allowed his gaze to slide behind her. There was nothing. Well, not quite nothing, there were several empty tables with black and white checkered tablecloths on them, but no teenaged Mafiosi were to be seen. Of course: it had been a dream. It was time to drink his frappuccino and leave for home as he was obviously a lot more tired than he had thought.

His coffee was already lukewarm and Marco gulped it down with a frown, then fastened his coat against the chill of the autumn night. He felt more than little silly as he walked out of the café. The dream had felt exceptionally real, detailed, but the absurd conversation should have been a clear hint. Some things only made sense in dreams.


	3. Vacational Aid

**Ten Little Soldiers**

Disclaimer: Not mine and I make no profit.

* * *

**Chapter III: Vacational Aid**

**Eight little Soldier boys traveling in Devon;  
One said he'd stay there and then there were seven.**

Polenta Filipepi didn't know it, but he was currently holding the record for going undercover in the Vongola and _staying_ undercover. Sadly neither did anyone else for he was mostly forgotten outside the city he was situated in.

He had patiently made his way in the Vongola Famiglia under the name of Piero Torregrossa over two years and more than anything he was annoyed that he had been situated in Zurich, Confederazione Svizzera_. _Nothing of great importance ever happened in Switzerland aside from certain bank transactions he had no chance of snooping in. He had been out of way during two little mafia wars and the Cradle Incident – and it had been excruciatingly embarrassing to explain to his Inspettore Capo he hadn't had a clue what it was about, except that the Nono's son was rumoured to have gone AWOL after. Now a Japanese teenager – why _Japanese_ of all things? – had been declared the nex don and Xanxus Vongola had been rumoured to have appeared again and he had been out of loop for that also.

All in all Polenta was more than pleased to be recalled to Italy. Maybe he would finally get into the thick of it, learning of more than some minor money laundering and petty drug deals.

It was the first time he had been to the The Vongola mansion. It had eight acres of landscaped grounds planted with olive, orange and magnolia trees and Polenta's experienced eye could catch cameras hidden in the green, gold-speckled shadows as he walked the path towards the building. Ancient oak and cypress tree surround the villa, which was cream-coloured building with several towers. Crime did seem to pay, he thought dryly as he finally arrived to the patio of the villa.

There was an oriental-looking man in a black suit, the jacket open to reveal a white shirt, and a little girl who walked out of the front doors just as Polenta arrived to the scene. He had straw blond hair, which made Polenta suspect he was half European in origin, and the little girl was an adorable thing wearing kiddy combat gear, a crimson cape, a toy infrared visor and a pacifier around her neck. Polenta had always had a weak spot for children and when she frowned so fiercely storm cloud could almost be seen gathering around her head he felt his heart melting.

Then she turned her head and he saw an angry red scar on her left cheek and it made him angry. Mafia was no place for a child to grow up in.

"Your next orders," the man said, "are to take a vacation." There was a moment of silence.

"A… vacation," the girl asked like she didn't know what the word meant. The man nodded vigorously.

"You know, travel the world, see the sights, do whatever you want for a month or so. You are overdue for one and it would break Colonello's heart if an ulcer sent you to early grave." The man pressed his both hands over his heart as he said this. The girl made an angry sound.

"Like I care what Colonello thinks!" she argued, a girl at the age when boys still have cooties. "I don't think I understand. There's a lot of work to be done here and we can't be sure Millefiore's future is gone for good and you want me to take a vacation?" the girl asked with voice that was all hard edges, making Polenta frown. What kind of meeting was the man letting his daughter sit in for her to speak like that? (Millefiore, a part of him filed the name for later research. That wasn't a name he had heard before.) A child this girl's age should worry about tea parties for her dolls. The man waved a hand dismissively.

"We're taking care of that. I just think you need a break, Lal." He tried to pat her over the head and she swatted his hand away. Polenta had a feeling something was wrong with this picture and the feeling kept intensifying.

"I wouldn't know what to do with a break," Lal finally admitted. The man laughed a little.

"Oh, right. It has been a while since you've had a vacation, right?" He paused to think, then hit his left hand with his fist and beamed at her.

"Don't worry, I have great idea!" He ignored her mutterings of "that's what I'm afraid of" and turned to look at Polenta, who was frozen under those brown eyes. They were thoroughly friendly, laughing even, and yet he broke sweating under his own jacket. There was weight behind those eyes and he decided he really didn't want to make this man angry, ever.

"Hey, what's your name?" he asked. Now Lal was demanding he didn't foist strange people off on her, but he ignored her.

"Piero Torregrossa, Signor," he answered promptly.

"I'm Iemitsu Sawada, the leader of CEDEF, and this is my minion Lal Mirch. You are to act as her Vacational Aid for a month. Don't worry, you are getting a budget."

So this was the father of the future Vongola Don. The feeling that he was missing something got worse still, but Polenta didn't want to seem difficult in front of this man. Who was still smiling like they were best friends. The Decimo had to be a formidable person indeed to have been raised by this man. Well, Polenta thought, getting into the CEDEF leader' and the future Don's father's good graces could benefit him greatly. He walked up to them and bent down, leaning his hands against his knees.

"What would you say about going to the Paris Disneyland, Signorina Mirch?" he asked. Her face darkened and now he froze under her eyes, brown almost a shade of red.

"Do you want to die?" she asked. Sawada laughed.

"Lal Mirch is one of the Arcobaleno," he explained, making Polenta almost choke on his spit. He had heard fantastical stories of them of course, assassins and informants and combat specialists and martial artists put under a curse that had changed them into babies, but also granted them magical abilities and animals. There was a lot of strange claptrap in The Vongola about supposed pyrokinetic abilities and magical rings – like they were role playing Tolkien's Lord of the Rings – and recently of magical boxes that turned into animals, but Polenta had never realized they were taking their own press this seriously.

"Of course. I am sorry," he said, fuming quietly inside. He swore then to give this poor girl the best vacation of her life and get her removed from this insane asylum ASAP. Sawada slapped him to the back and he smiled sheepishly, his face disconnected from his true mind.

"You'll get along just fine," Sawada promised. Lal, Polenta noted, didn't promise a thing.

In the end he was the one who planned their travelling schedule. Sawada had told to take her on a tour and Lal herself had only told him to not take her to anywhere with annoying people, or else. First he was going to take her to Spain. The last Wednesday of August month was just three days away and that was when the yearly tomato fight, La Tomatina, would take place in Buñol, Valencia. Not too childish for Lal's pride, but nevertheless a giant vegetable fight was something a child should definitely enjoy. The there would be The Aarhus Festival in Denmark. Ten days and every year a new theme with new performances and entertainment. He had gone through their website and they seemed to have a Viking Festival this year. What children didn't like Vikings?

He wasn't sure where he would take her after Aarhus, but hopefully she would have relaxed enough at that point for him to take her to someplace for children, maybe even breach the subject of finding her a real home.

**Buñol, Valencia**

Tens of thousands of people had been throwing tomatoes at each other in Spain in what was possibly the world's biggest food fight. Local folklore told the contest had begun with a food fight that had broken out between youngsters near a vegetable stand in the town in the mid-1940s. From there the battle had grown into an annual event. There were five rules to the fight.

You may not bring any bottles or objects that could cause an accident.

You must not throw or tear t-shirts.

You MUST squash the tomatoes before throwing them. (To avoid hurting anyone.)

You must be careful for any truck or lorry that comes along.

When you hear the second shot you MUST stop throwing tomatoes.

They flew to Valencia in first class. It was the first time Polenta ever traveled so luxuriously and now he was feeling a good deal bitterer over the crime paying well. The individual laptop powerport connections were useless because he didn't have a laptop, but the food was good and served on white linen table cloths and with real cutlery, with the natural exception of knives. For once he had more than enough room to stretch on his seat and he had in-seat personal video system with personal viewing monitors and a variety of programming and personal reading lights and privacy dividers were separating them from the other passengers. He felt completely out of place despite his suit matching those of the other passengers, like anyone could take one look at him and tell he didn't belong, which wasn't a comfortable feeling for an undercover police. Lal was wearing her red cape and combat suit and she sat regally like a queen on her seat.

"Would you like something to drink, Signor?" a beautiful stewardess asked him. He had only seen beautiful stewardesses during the flight and he was wondering if they were maybe chosen for their looks in this class.

"I am fine, thank you. Would you like to have something, Lal?" he asked his charge. Lal shrugged minutely.

"Mineral water, please," she said. The stewardess complied quickly, but Lal didn't seem to get any pleasure from her drink. Polenta was wondering if she was maybe forbidden from drinking soft drinks. Very healthy and sensible of course, but children should be allowed to be children.

"Would you have preferred a coke?" he asked. Lal gave him a disdaining look.

"If I wanted a coke I would have asked for it," she snapped at him.

The captain of the plane announced that they were about to land in Valencia. The landing was rather uncomfortable as Polenta's ears had always been sensitive to changes of atmospheric pressure. They were ushered through the special check-in and security zones at the airport and offered complimentary limousine service. It was all great and enviable and yet he was more than a little relieved to change out of his suit at the hotel they would be staying at.

Polenta took Lal to watch the first even of the day: climbing of a greased pole with a ham on top. Then at eleven o'clock a shot rang and Polenta handed her red swimming goggles. They were standing at the edge of the Plaza del Pueblo, both wearing old, hackneyed T-shirts and shorts they could throw away when the day was over. Red banners had been spread over the streets. The people were milling around, the air was practically electrified with anticipation and glee and the sun was beating down on them from a cloudless blue sky.

"Keep these on, for safety's sake, and be careful. There are going to be a lot of people who aren't watching where they are going," he advised.

"I still don't see how tourists throwing tomatoes at each other is supposed to be fun," she complained, holding a purple box in her hand. It was rather small, small enough to fit her palm, and she was giving it a considering look. Polenta would have asked, but that was when the trucks backspaced to the plaza and poured tomatoes all over the ground. That was when the chaos began.

Men without shirts and women in small tops were crawling all over the cobblestones, grabbing tomatoes and throwing them. They ran around and screamed and laughed and crushed their projectiles between their fingers, red juice flowing down their arms. In the middle of this Polenta shielded his charge the best he could, getting hit several times, and Lal was the very picture of affronted dignity until one tomato hit her squarely to the back of her head. She raised her hand to her hair and touched the pieces of tomato flesh stuck in there. She looked at her fingers like she couldn't believe what she saw and then her lips were stretched in a positively feral smile.

"Oh, this fight is on now," she growled. And she proceeded to break rule number one.

She pressed the box in her hand against her pacifier and it glowed deep purple. What are you doing, Polenta was going to ask, but he didn't have enough time before the box opened with a flash and there was a giant black centipede.

Polenta stared. Giant black centipede. It had a look to it that vaguely reminded him of the movie Alien and its sequels. At first it was maybe the size of a big dog, which was _way too big _for an insect _ever_, but it grew and grew and grew until it was twice the length of a horse. It didn't crawl towards the rejoicing people, it pounced and flew, firing purple fire from its tail, or maybe it was from its head, Polenta thought and heard himself laughing. He didn't know much of centipede anatomy, heads or tails, whatever; oh, that sounded like a game of dices. He laughed as Lal Mirch took a tomato and without squishing it first threw it to a middle-aged overweight man who was aiming for her a few meters away. He missed, she didn't and he keeled over from the force of the blow. People were screaming and they were different kind of screams now, full of fear instead of mirth. The ground was flowing with crushed red paste and the smell of tomato was so strong Polenta thought it might permeate his brain. His chuckles were beginning to turn into sobs and he bit his hand, recognizing the sign of onsetting hysteria. Giant black pyrokinetic centipede from a magical box.

Lal Mirch grabbed the T-shirt of a long-haired woman in order to throw her down to the tomato paste. Then she disappeared from his view, but not for long.

The fight was over with half an hour to spare and they were the only ones left standing. One truck had been turned on its side and as almost clean Lal Mirch walked towards him with springy steps he thought that she only didn't break that last rule because there was no one left to throw tomatoes at. The sun cast her shadow behind her and shadows could be funny things, because for a second Polenta could have sworn he saw the shadow of a mature woman.

"You were right, Torregrossa. This was invigorating. Where are we going next?" Lal Mirch asked. Polenta stepped gingerly around the unconscious bodies and quickly booked them tickets to Denmark.

**Aarhus, Denmark**

Polenta had spent the entire plane trip trying to for a report that would make some kind of sense in his head and failed spectacularly. The centipede was probably some robotic kind of weapon, all right. As to how it fit inside that tiny, little box, well, technology was fantastic these days. And the reason Lal Mirch had been given this new technology was because she was in truth an adult woman who had been somehow de-aged, a medicinal miracle old people would pay anything for. A very, very strong adult de-aged woman. He had difficulties convincing even himself.

The news on the television had told of a mysterious riot at La Tomatina in Buñol: mass hallucination of monstrous centipedes! He had switched the channel immediately.

They had a few days to spare before the beginning of the festival and spent those sightseeing. Polenta was getting used to names of food that had nothing to do with the food they were attached to at all, except for _Blodpølse_, which he had found out afterwards was really made of blood. It had been a very traumatic experience. They had taken a city tour in Copenhagen and gone to look at the Amalienborg Palace and the Little Mermaid statue in the harbor and thankfully neither the centipede nor Lal Mirch's violent tendencies had made a second appearance. Still, he couldn't help but wait for the other shoe to drop.

The first day of the Aarhus Festival dawned cloudy and rather chilly, but at least it wasn't raining. At that point Polenta had decided that thinking about what Lal Mirch's real age, which he wouldn't ask just in case it was a touchy subject, was maybe breaking his brain, but that didn't mean he should take to the children's events.

The church bells were tolling, tolling, tolling like warning from an attack as they walked around the market. A woman in a simple, historical-looking dress, green apron and big silver buckles was selling hand crafted Viking knives. They were all rather small, small enough for Lal Mirch to handle without any difficulty, and she was over the moon about their quality. One knife was pretty much the same as the other to Polenta, but he wanted to keep her happy and their travelling budget was more than generous so he ended up buying her five. He tried not to think about the way she hid them expertly inside her red cape.

"I want to go to a bar now," she decided out of blue.

"You want to what?" he shrieked, not quite believing what he had heard. This little girl… who maybe wasn't a real little girl, but try explaining that to someone, and what about her liver? Lal narrowed her eyes and grabbed the front of Tsuna's shirt, pulling him closer.

"Are you saying that it's a bad idea, Torregrossa?" she demanded and there plain wasn't right answer to that one.

"No!" he immediately yielded, fearing for his life. Lal was one scary not-woman. And she was smirking now.

"If it's not bad," she almost sang teasingly. "Then that must mean that it's a good one. Am I right?"

"Y-yes. But where are we going to find a bar that will let you in?" Polenta thought it better to just agree with everything for now. If he pulled through alive, then he would be happy.

"Leave that to me, I have got good instincts."

Lo and behold, there truly was a bar in Aarhus that would let him in with Lal at two pm. She wasn't the only child there either, though she was the youngest – youngest-looking. Grim Hund had what Polenta thought might be called a rocker charm all its own which was enhanced by the grubby barefoot kiddies running around and the upturned crate chairs. It was dim and full of cigarette smoke. Not to mention the satellite porn on the TV. Again he felt completely out of place, he was beginning to think he was losing his touch. Again Lal Mirch fit in easy as breathing, marching to the barkeeper and demanding a coke. Polenta was too busy being relieved that she wasn't trying to buy alcohol that he didn't much care why she had wanted to come there in the first place.

Not before a harsh voice called from the outside "Politi!" and that sounded an awful lot like Danish for police. The long-bearded, dirty men sitting already at the bar didn't even blink, but there was the sound of something lunging and then footsteps. A door Polenta hadn't even seen – it was papered just like the walls were – opened and an exodus of gang of twelve year olds from the room behind the door out back due to the police raid. There was a pool table, the sticks abandoned every which way on the floor. He turned towards Lal Mirch to take her away the same way, but the words on his lips turned into a groan when he saw her cracking her knuckles.

"I wanted to get into a bar fight, but this is even better," she crowed. Polenta did the only thing he could think of. He sat on a crate chair, ordered a whiskey, neat, and closed in eyes in a prayer.

The chipped glass was put in front of him with a clearly audible clink. Polenta opened his eyes and the bartender said him something in Danish. Polenta didn't speak a word of Danish so he shrugged and smiled sheepishly. The man would understand soon enough.

The first crate-chair flew when his back was still turned. Against his better judgement he turned to see Lal Mirch jump towards a police officer who had been frozen midstep with a look of amusing non-comprehension on his face. That cost him his chance as Lal hit him to solar plexus and he bent like a pocket knife and fell to the floor. Polenta swallowed the whiskey at one go and wondered if he could arrest her for this. Preferably with an army battalion as back-up, but really, she hadn't done anything too outlandish yet… She pulled out a bazooka. An honest-to-God full-sized bazooka from under her little cape, holding it with ease and all of a sudden the size of the knives he had bought her earlier didn't seem so significant criteria. One loud boom that made his ears ring later the rest of the police had surrendered and Lal Mirch had tied them all up, then ordered whiskey for herself. The patrons all mumbled something that Polenta thought might be telling each other how they had never been so drunk so early in the day. Lal had turned out to be very good at teaching languages she didn't speak.

In the end Lal was plied and placated with drinks until Polenta was forced to act as a crutch when they hobbled back to the hotel. She crawled into the bed, not even bothering to change into her pyjamas, and Polenta attempted to figure out the hotel remote control so that it might do his bidding, but that hope was in vain.

"You know, I had my doubts about this whole vacations idea, but I think I will take another next year." Lal's smile was more sleepy than drunk and for a minute she looked like a little angel.

Heaven forbid! Polenta wondered how likely it was that he would be demanded to attend to her then and decided it didn't matter because any probability exceeding round zero was unacceptable. To think there were supposed to be, what, six more of these? He was getting the hell out of this dodge the second he got back to Italy.

"Where are we going after this festival is over?" she asked. It was going to be a long month.

He cried in joy when Sawada recalled them the next day, apologizing profoundly for disturbing their relaxing holiday, but Lal Mirch was needed back in Italy, yesterday.


	4. Calm Your Nerves

**Ten Little Soldiers**

Disclaimer: Not mine and I make no profit.

* * *

**Chapter IV: Calm Your Nerves**

**Seven little Soldier boys chopping up sticks;  
One chopped himself in halves and then there were six.**

The bath water was scented with lemongrass and tea tree bubble bath soap and every available surface in the bathroom from the sink to the closed lid of the toilet had pale blue, green and white candles burning on them and there was a wide half circle of them surrounding the bathtub. All in all it wasn't a scene a young man would like his sister to walk in on, but after their mother had died in the spring they had chosen to keep the house, which they couldn't have afforded to do if one would have had to buy the other out.

"What in the name of sweet Mary mother of God are you doing and why didn't you lock the door?" Bambi Testarossa asked from her brother Bernardo. They were twins, obviously not identical, but similar in all that mattered. They were both prone to impulsive behaviour yet stubborn beyond all reason and both had chosen law enforcement for career, though different branches. Bernardo was in Guardia di Finanza, usually involved in cases that concerned investigating money laundering and international illegal weapon trafficking, while Bambi was in Polizia di Stato, patrolling motorways.

They also looked similar, with big dark eyes and jet back hair, though Bambi was the waif-looking one and Bernardo merely slim. Really.

Bernardo cracked an eyelid open and looked around as though just noticing the candle-light and bubbles.

"I forgot. It's relaxation therapy," he informed his sister and then closed the eye again.

"Well, you would better get relaxed soon because I'm not relieving myself while you are sitting there," Bambi stated dryly. Bernardo expected to hear her leave, but there were several clinks as she put down the candle holders on the toilet lid instead and the he heard the creak as she sat on it. "So what brought this on? Correct me if I'm wrong, but just last week you were mocking this kind of "new age bullshit" when we were out with Giulia," she finally asked.

"I made rookie cry," he admitted gruffly, thankful his face was already red from the hot water. Bambi had always said he would do that one day. Bambi winced and took a longer look around at his candles and scented bathwater.

"Do you find this useful?" she asked with a hint of curiosity, making a vague gesture with her right hand. Bernardo had to actually stop to consider the matter. His therapist hadn't been entirely clear in what was supposed to happen once he got into the bath.

"I don't know. I'm not sure I'm doing it right," he admitted. Bambi blinked at him, tilting her head and looking like she really wanted to know and not like she was just making fun of him. Maybe she got the feminine cravings for luxurious baths every once in a while.

"Why are you relaxing like this in the first place? I didn't take you for the type to enjoy aroma therapy," she said, proving again that she knew him well. Certainly better than Signor Prodi.

"My therapist," he muttered and closed his eyes again, waiting for the explosion.

"Since when do you have a therapist, what did happen to you that you need one and why am I only hearing of this now!" she fired rapidly with voice more scared than annoyed. Their friends frequently asked them how two so strong-willed people could live under the same roof and not go completely mad, but they had always been close. Ever since the death of their mother they had looked out for each other and Bambi was probably feeling like a complete failure now for not noticing anything when there had been nothing to notice.

"Nothing happened, it was just that I made the rookie cry," Bernardo admitted. "I got Doctor Prodi, though he insists on being called Signor. I have to see him at least twice a week. He gave me a squishy ball too, but I already, um, squished it."

"You squished a squishy ball? I assume that means it went to the squishy balls' Heaven," Bambi asked and Bernardo didn't have to see the raised eyebrow; he could hear it happen in her voice.

"It gave its life for a good cause," he grumbled sleepily as the hot water was making his eyes droop. "It was either kill the ball or strangle the man when he suggested that my inability to deal with people my minor was a sign that I'm afraid of fatherhood and had issues with my father," he spat and Bambi's smile tightened into a grim line, her eyes almost closing as she glared in that special way of hers that made her look rather demented. Their father had been a good man who had worked hard as construction worker to support them and died when a drunken driver had driven over him on a pedestrian crossing when they were ten years old.

"I see. Tell me what it is that's gotten you this wound up, it should help more than squishy balls and psychbabble," she prodded him.

"It was the Vongola again," he said and there was a small ah noise from his sister.

This was yet another thing they had in common: their very personal adversary with the Vongola Famiglia. Bernardo had the infamous weapon maker only known as Giannichi who often collaborated with the Bovino Famiglia. He had never even seen the elusive man face to face, instead doing his best to track down the illegal weapon facilities and trafficking routes of the Vongola. The trouble he often run to was that surprisingly lot of what the man made wasn't in fact illegal for one reason or the other and his crusade to catch the man was often compared to that of the bungling French police detective Jacques Clouseau trying to find the Pink Panther Diamond, much to his displeasure. He had gotten a T-shirt with the cartoon Clouseau chasing the panther Pink Panther as a gag gift from his friend for his last birthday.

"What was it this time?" Bambi asked. "A grenade that turns the enemy guns into glass?" The sad thing was that Bernardo wasn't entirely sure his sister was joking.

"No, a laser gun that's not a gun, but scientific laboratory equipment by the name Laguna." The newest bane of his existence.

"A laser gun named Laguna? That's kind of a watery name, don't you think?" Bambi asked, kicking her shoes off her feet and putting her feet up against the tiled wall. Her socks didn't match; one was blue and another black.

"Don't ask me how that man's mind works. Laguna is a piece of lab equipment so you don't need a license to buy it or anything. It's the size of a big flashlight and depending on the lens you're using, it can cut through rocks and burn hot enough to make air explode at the focus point. They are going to change the laws so these require permission, but you know how slow process that is; by then that man will have come up with something else, or the Bovino have. The only borderline good thing about this mess is that the Vongola don't sell these." Thankfully, miraculously the Vongola played their cards close to the chest, keeping their scifi super weaponry to themselves and a few allied families. "And because these things were in fact legal I had to let that truck containing hundreds of these things go!" Inhale, exhale, inhale, exhale, he told himself, take deep breaths.

"So your week has sucked also. I had a meeting with the Feather Boa Man in the Alfa Romeo today," Bambi commiserated and now it was Bernardo's turn to make understanding noises.

The Feather Boa Man was Bambi's own personal nemesis, the reason the blood pressure of a woman whose job didn't in any way involve fighting organized crime rose when she heard the name Vongola. She patrolled the motorways of Sicily, keeping them safe. When she had been a newly graduated police, green and eager to show what she was made of, she had stopped a red Alfa Romeo driving 150 kilometres per hour, exceeding the speeding limit on motorways by 20 kilometres per hour. It had slowed down and stopped obediently to the side of the road. Bambi had gotten out of her car, walked to the _extremely nummy_ Alfa Romeo and hardly believed her eyes. The man driving the car had been very muscular. He's had brown hair and most of it had been sheared off to a buzz cut, but there had been a wild flop of neon green hair on the right side of his head. This spectacle had been crowned by dark glasses, open trench coat over pristine white silk shirt and a bright red feather boa.

Bambi had taken the plate number, checked the vehicle licence and driving licence and given the man penalty while he had been making disapproving noises about those horrible uniforms the police were required to wear and complimenting her hair. The next day it had turned out that the name on the licence had been fake and the vanity plate number VARIA1 didn't exist. There had been ribbing of course and while most of it had been good natured Bambi had taken it to the heart and it had been left there to ferment.

It hadn't been the last time Bambi had seen that red Alfa Romeo. The Feather Boa Man, for the lack of a better name, always drove at illegal speeds and Bambi had chasen him more than once, but never once after that first time had the man stopped for her. He often slowed down enough that Bambi could get beside him, waved at her and then sped again like it was some kind of race. And that car of his had to be illegally tuned because the kind of speed he got out of it was very much out of specs for the car. Bernardo had been the one who had made the connection with a plate that read VARIA1 and the Vongola Famiglia. The Variawere rumoured to be the Vongola Famiglia's elite, independent assassination team, composed of genius assassins who worked in the deepest recesses of the Mafia. Each member would take on missions that were said to be impossible to accomplish by normal humans; however, they would not accept a mission unless they believed there was a 90% chance of success.

Fighting mafia wasn't Bambi's job. Keeping the roads of Sicily safe was, however, and she was going to catch the accursed man if it was the last thing she ever did.

"It sucks to be us, huh?" Bernardo asked, making Bambi snort and shrug her shoulders.

"Maybe you should see if you could switch from Prodi to Dr Azzurra. When I was sent to her last year she made me chop wood to relieve pent up stress." She had done it as a volunteer work for a nearby youth center since they had a fireplace and the Testarossa didn't.

"Sound better than squishy balls," Bernardo admitted, and Bambi's smile turned into devious.

"In that case you should be willing to let be borrow some of that bubble bath soap. You can keep the candles," she said.


	5. Take You Over

**Ten Little Soldiers**

Disclaimer: Not mine and I make no profit.

* * *

**Chapter VI: Take you over**

**Six little Soldier boys playing with a hive;  
A bumblebee stung one and then there were five.**

Bianca Tatangelo looked at the paper her commander had had printed out for her. A toy company called Fiabesco Giocattoli was looking for an entry-level designer/illustrator to their Department of Advertising for their new anime action figure line. There were no degree requirements were listed; all they asked for was asked for was a résumé and a sample of the applicant's artwork, familiarity with Japanese animation was a plus.

"I assume there is something fishy going on with this company?" she asked.

"Fiabesco Giocattoli is owned by the Mazza Biciclette Corporation, which in turn is in the Vongola ownership," Vice Ispettore Dario Celso said, making the wry smile die in Bianca's lips. "The company itself appears to be fairly innocent, but they need to hire new employees quite often – and the old ones pop up later in the main business."

"They recruit from a _toy company_?" Bianca asked, incredulous. Intellectually she was aware that toy company workers probably weren't any more likely to be the jolly Gepetto type than workers in any other company, but stereotypes were strong stuff and she had a picture of greyed, bespectacled little men and women in pink knitted sweaters with knitting needles peeking from their pockets carrying tommy guns while smiling serenely in her head.

"They recruit everywhere. You wouldn't believe some of the people that end up joining that Famiglia. I'm speaking of runaway nuns and ballet dancers here," The Vice Ispettore grumbled and shrugged nonchalantly. He only had two more years before retirement and he had seen everything Italian underworld had to offer. Bianca, still a bit green, was afraid she looked like a fish, gaping like that. Every time she heard of nuns gone bad she couldn't help but be reminded of Dark Habits by Pedro Almodóvar and the thought of _that_ going on in the Vongola Famiglia was scary and scarily enticing at the same time.

She liked bad nuns, so sue her.

"Now, I'm not happy to give this mission to you," the Vice Ispettore continued. "You are much too inexperienced. But sadly you are the only police with any artistic persuasion in the whole city."

And Bianca had a gift for art. She had married a college junior who had hung the sun, the moon and half of the stars in the sky in her besotted eyes. They had both been too young and she had been too much in love with him to think straight when he asked her to postpone her plans for art school to support the two of them while he got his business degree. It was to be a shared effort, he had argued, and once he had graduated and was bringing home a big paycheck it would be her turn to realize her dreams and sweep the European art world off its feet. So Bianca had gone to the police school and gotten herself a steady paycheck. The marriage hadn't lasted, but the career had. To this day she wasn't sure what had possessed her to make that choice. She wasn't feeling bad about her choice; her career was the only thing she didn't regret that had come out of her failed two years of a marriage, but she had surprised all who knew her, most of all herself.

Well, maybe there was one other good thing. She had no bosom to speak of and Nino had always complained about her flat chest, becoming more and more insistent that she should get silicones once they had the money for it, much to Bianca's horror. At least it had all ended before she ended up agreeing! Who had ever heard of a police woman with implants?

"Do you want me to get into the Vongola?" Bianca asked. She was flattered, or would have been if she didn't know she was the poor only choice, but a whole lot more than that she was terrified by the mere thought. The Vongola was the most influential mafia Family in Italy, perhaps even in the whole world, and pitting her inexperienced self against that made her stomach churl – if she got the job, that was. But she had known her life might be at risk when she joined the force and so she forced a confident smile to her lips. But the Vice Ispettore shook his head and looked frankly scandalized, much to her relief.

"Heavens, no! I want you to see if you can get them to make you an offer and get proof of it. After that we can begin formal investigation. Don't, I repeat, under any circumstance don't try to fly solo on this. You wouldn't survive." The Vice Ispettore glared at her like she suspected she was harbouring secret desire to bring down the entire organization by her lonesome. Bianca assured him with complete sincerity that she would follow his orders to a T and left to prepare her application with a coworker responsible for creating her a résumé.

She knew she didn't have much of a chance of getting this job, or even getting into an interview. She still dabbled in oil painting in her free time, but her most of her artwork was cubistic and didn't really show if she had the kind of talent for the style this company no doubt wanted – she wasn't sure she had it herself. In the end, after much digging, she found one piece that she deemed half-way acceptable: a beast made of denim and zippers attacking a herd of terry clothe animals. She scanned it and attached the file to her résumé, without hoping much. She was very surprised when the very next day there was a message from Fiabesco, giving an address and instructing her to report to Nicole Orlando in Human Resources three days after.

Over the next two days Bianca familiarized herself with her new, hastily crafted identity and the figures she would advertise at the same time. She got to be pretty much herself, only names and her job had been changed, and so she could devote time to the characters also. Magical Girl Fairy Ageha was the staple of shoujo anime; it told the story of a girl named Ageha and her five friends who turned into magical butterfly girls and fought evil Queen Bee Kochin who wanted to conquer the world. The first step was a hostile take-over of all the flower-selling companies of the world, naturally. Maybe. Despite this convoluted plan for world domination Bianca found herself rooting for Kochin and her sexy bee soldiers. She liked cute things, but there were cute and then there were too cute and the Butterfly Soldiers definitely landed in the second category.

"I am going to take over this vocation in a hostile manner," she told the voluptuous figure in black and golden pencil dress on the screen of her computer. "Wish me luck." And she clicked the window closed.

Bianca Tatangelo wasn't the best person for the job, but she was still the only person for it. Luckily for her, or maybe not, the opposition had found itself in such a situation not once, but twice over the course of the last ten years.

The alliance between the Vongola and the Chiavarone was as stable as alliance can be between two mafia Famiglias. It was based on hundreds of hours of negotiations and treaties and agreements over territories and trading routes and prices and mutual pacts of friendship and co-operation and aid. As short as their time had been, the tenth generation had already added their own unique flavour to these agreements. There was an old Treaty of Shared Resources and the transfer of manpower was covered under article 61, section 10. Recently a new subsection had been added to it.

The subsection saw more use than the rest of the section put together. That still amounted to maybe once a year, but nevertheless.

The building was all glass glittering quicksilver even in the dim light of a cloudy day and silvery steel. Sterile and ultramodern had never been Bianca's cup of coffee, but this giant was plain intimidating. She took a deep breath, lifted her chin and put a smile on her face. She entered the Fiabesco Giocattoli building.

It was a lot better inside, still classy and reeking of money, but warmer and earthier. The lobby rose two stories high and it was decorated with warm, earthy colours and potted trees. They were definitely not the miniature variety, but almost high enough to grow out in the open, and the walls were decorated with huge pieces of abstract art in red and gold and okra and muted green. Bianca still felt a bit out of her class, but she reminded herself of her promise to a sexy queen bee and walked towards the security desk. So maybe it was a silly thing to find encouragement from, Bianca didn't care. The way she saw it the world could be a big, cold place and you took what you could have from where you could get it, cartoon women counting.

"May I help you, Signorina?" a security guard that was seated behind a granite desk asked her. He wasn't dressed in the usual knitwear or pilot shirt and jacket Bianca was used to seeing, but dress suit she would have been wary of wearing if there was any chance of it getting ripped, stained or otherwise ruined.

"Yes, please, I am here for a job interview. My name is Rosso. I was to meet Nicole Orlando from Human Resources," she explained. The guard made a phone call and told her to sit down and wait for someone to come and take her upstairs.

Like clockwork another man in suit – distinguishable only by his lighter shade of hair and slightly bigger nose – walked her into the elevator and took her into the eleventh floor and shooed her into a set of offices. They were big and airy and sunny and and unlike the suited security people had suggested the people working there didn't seem to have any kind of dress code. Bianca could see jeans and miniskirts among suit pants and one woman was wearing tie-dyed tunic with black leggings and sandals and sported the brightest, most eye-catchingly red dreadlocks she had ever seen. In the middle of all this originality she almost didn't pay attention to the tall dark-skinned woman who waited in the hallway; she was startled when the hand the woman offered appeared almost out of nothing.

"Maria Rosso, I presume? I am Nicole Orlando, it's nice to meet you. Please come this way." Her voice was low and smooth, lacking in emotion, but heavily accented.

She was lead to an office with no windows and gestured to sit in front of a big desk. Bianca put her portfolio on it and smiled, all nervousness gone now. Maybe it had been some kind of stage fright, she thought and answered Orlando's questions about why she had chosen to major in arts and why she wanted to work in Fiabesco Giocattoli. She professed great interest in animations in general and shyly confessed that Kochin was her favourite character of the series. Her gamble paid off as this somewhat childish interest seemed to endear her to the woman interviewing her a bit. She thought she had made a good overall impression when Orlando offered to walk her out at the end of the interview.

Orlando was dressed smartly and she could probably have used her heels to kill a man. They tak tak takked against the hard floor as they walked towards the elevator, but ceased suddenly. Bianca took one step forward before realising that her minder had ceased and turned to look at her. Orlando was looking at the red light that was shining above the elevator.

"This seems to be out of use," she said, biting her lower lip. Bianca didn't like the light that was beginning to shine in her eyes. "We need to take the stairs," the woman concluded and led her to a see-through door to the stairway instead.

Someone was walking down the stairs behind them. Bianca didn't pay much attention to him after giving a brief look at the tall, blond man, worrying about what the situation might be, hoping she was being paranoid – mafia-owned or not, it _was_ a toy company – and wondering what she could do without a gun if things really went pear-shaped. Then she could hear the man stumbling and suddenly a body with a lot more mass than hers collided with hers. Luckily she was only two steps from the landing, but sharp flash still burst up her arm from her elbow, making her eyes water and breath hitch.

"I'm terribly sorry! I hope you aren't hurt," the man said apologetically.

He was really a lot better-looking than the brief glance Bianca had taken had told her. He had face that was nice, but not the kind of handsome that made people feel inferior or intimidated. He smiled sheepishly as he rose and extended a hand to Bianca. She took it gladly, muttering how it was nothing, honest, all the while wondering why the man looked so familiar. She was sure she had seen that face somewhere…

"I hope you aren't hurt, Signor Cavallone," Orlando said, not sparing her applicant rubbing her elbow a second glance, or even the first one for that matter. Bianca's mouth instantly dried like someone had stuffed cotton wool into it and she felt her lips twitching, but kept the polite smile on via sheer will of force. She hadn't seen the man before, but she had seen a picture: Dino Cavallone, the young Don of the Chiavarone Famiglia. A part of her noted how he looked very unintimidating for such a dangerous man and didn't even dress the part while another calculated how likely it was she might hear something of interest.

A sharp BANG sounded from somewhere below, making her hit the floor, her hands fly to her ears and her heart leap into her throat for good.

Movies had taught the general public many things about guns that were complete bullshit, among them the efficiency of silencers. The fact was that exploding gunpowder was loud. Loud as in loud as a jet engine and a little metal tube didn't do a whole lot to change that. An unsilenced gunshot was around 140 to 160 decibels and a silenced dropped down to 120 or 130; all it did was making a big gun sound like a smaller gun. The reason silencers even existed, aside from protecting the ears of the person shooting the gun, was to make it hard to tell where the shot was coming from or exactly how far away it was. There were only two directions in the stairway, up and down, but because of the silencer combined with the echoes Bianca couldn't tell how many stories down the shot had sounded from.

"Of all the days for you to leave your Family behind," Orlando muttered. She had hit the floor also, along with Cavallone, and she was holding a gun with a grim look on her face. There were quick steps and they were getting closer every second. Bianca had just enough time to think she wasn't going to survive this when Orlando' eyes locked into hers and the rose red lips stretched into a smile full of pearly white teeth.

"Congratulations, Rosso, that job is yours. Now tell me, do you have some kind of moral aversion towards working for the mafia?" she asked.

"N-no," Bianca stuttered. She was in the presence of a major mafia Don and an underling with her gun drawn; Maria was the most mafia-happy person in all Italy right then.

"Great, welcome into the Vongola, it was great working with you. Don Cavallone, this is Maria Rosso. Maria, this is an emergency so under the Treaty of Shared Resources, article 61, section 10, subsection 11 I'm transferring you into his Family. Please take good care of her, Don Cavallone." And she thrust dumbstruck Bianca into the man's arms. She was unresisting as Cavallone pushed her gently at arm's length away.

"You don't have to say yes, you know," he promised with a kind voice, making Orlando gnash her teeth.

"I really don't mind. If I'm going to live, that is," Bianca muttered and was immediately swept up to her feet. The man's grin, the way he was holding her close with an arm around her waist, the way he pulled out a bullwhip, everything in him could suddenly only be described as swashbuckling.

"Don't worry, you will," he promised, cracked the whip and wrapped it around the railing. The he jumped on top of the railing and down the gap, swinging them both into the next floor before Bianca even had time to get startled. The he kicked the door, translucent rather than transparent this time, open and gave Bianca a push to the back. "Be a dear and get me a water cooler," he said.

Numbly, Bianca ran forward to obey. She didn't see anyone and wondered if all the workers had escaped somehow or if they were in hiding. The first water cooler she saw was mounted to the floor so she dislodged the water tank instead – that was the most important part, right? When she got back to the door Orlando had already closed them, but she cracked them open and pushed the tank into the corridor. That was when the shooting started and Bianca winced, picturing the man falling into the floor, full of bullets. But the shooting didn't stop.

Okay, Bianca thought, I technically didn't go undercover in the Vongola, but if I survive this Vice Inspettore is going to kill me anyway. This one clear thought was followed by several that pushed each other around in her head, from fantastical how do you fight fire arms with a bullwhip to practical why did I get transferred into his Famiglia anyway. But all this traffic in her brain came to a halt when the silhouette of a giant turtle appeared against the milky white, translucent glass. And it kept growing, and growing, and then it snapped its jaws and surged in a way no turtle had evolved to surge.

I'm hallucinating, Bianca thought, I'm lying in a puddle of my own blood and having hallucinations before my death. That was the only explanation. It wasn't a comforting one, she was much too young to die, but as she searched for the silver lining in this storm cloud she realized that at least she wouldn't have to explain anything to anyone.


	6. Chancy Justice

**Ten Little Soldiers**

Disclaimer: Not mine and I make no profit.

* * *

**Chapter VI: Chancy Justice**

**Five little Soldier boys going in for law;  
One got in Chancery and then there were four.**

Detective Sergeant Thomas Smith, tall and black with the build of a bear, was an imposing man by himself and when flanked by his most trusted detective, Ivana Shawn, he was at least one and half times more frightening. Icy Shawn was her superior officer's right arm, ear, mouthpiece or left kidney, depending on what Smith needed at any given time, and she loved every minute of it.

Alexander Lloyd, a Higher Court Advocate in the Crown Prosecution Service, wasn't a physically imposing man. He had a list of physical hindrances long enough to write a medical journal about: myopia, hay fever and other assorted allergies that included strawberries, tomatoes, soy, nuts and kiwi fruit, he suffered from insomnia, high blood pressure, lactose intolerance and generally weak constitution which led to him getting sick whenever someone sneezed in the same building with him. In addition to this he had a weak chin that led the unaware dismiss him at first glance as someone weak and easily intimidated. A book shouldn't be judged by the cover; he had the will of stone and sharp intelligence that would have put a razor to shame and he was highly respected by his peers and feared by the criminal population. He always got the man, or woman, he was prosecuting sent behind the bars, complete with hideous prison uniform.

"I didn't take you for the type to make practical jokes, Mr. Smith," he said dryly and pushed the grey folder handed to him aside.

"This is no joke, Lloyd. This is a crime boss and it's your job to prosecute him," Smith growled. Alexander could almost swear there was a note of desperation to that voice. It was a pity, really, the man was a good, devoted policeman, but this wouldn't do at all.

"A crime boss to be, to be exact. And while I agree that he needs to be incarcerated on a general principle, you can not possibly expect me to take this case."

This case being outlined in the remarkably thick folder. A citizen of Japan and Italy both, Sawada Tsunayoshi, had arrived into the country along with his inner circle: Gokudera Hayato, Yamamoto Takeshi, Sasagawa Ryohei and Sasagawa Kyoko, Lambo Bovino, Kyoya Hibari, Dokuro Chrome, Miura Haru, Fuuta de la Stella and Reborn il Nessuno to watch a friend of theirs, a dancer, perform in a show at Covent Garden. This was a far as things made sense.

Reborn Nobody. Somebody had either no sense of humour or too much of it.

"So this three-year-old child named Reborn is in truth a legendary hitman and tutor of Sawada. Your witness No. 1 claims that he shot Sawada to the head, but rather than die the boy combusted. This didn't cause any damage to him, however." Smith's glower darkened, but he didn't say anything. Probably couldn't think of anything to say to that.

"Witnesses No. 2 and 3 claim that Sasagawa Ryohei punched his fist through the side of a car which was later confirmed to be armoured. Witness No. 4 claims that Yamamoto believes this is all live action role play, Sawada wears a stylish black cape and Kyoya attacked an anarchist demonstration because they were undisciplined and crowding. However relevant this information may be," Alexander added dryly and put the folder carefully down on his desk. He had some mild OCD tendencies that manifested in need to keep things orderly. He had a pencil of each of the primary colours and the additive colours – the casing of the pencils was coloured, he did not believe in writing with coloured pencils like a child with a colouring book – in appropriate places between them on his desk and whenever he sharpened one he had to sharpen all to keep them at the same length. His papers were squarely placed and so was the folder.

"Assault is a crime and therefore relevant, for all it was a bunch of anarchists in an illegal demonstration," Shawn said coolly and punched his desk with her dainty fist, making the pencils roll. Alexander frowned and moved them back to their right places.

"The anarchists refuse to confirm this. I have to compliment the work you have done; this is very thoroughly prepared case despite everything, with all pertinent information." Alexander always gave praise when praise was due, even though and especially if it annoyed the recipient. A lesser man might have misled him. A less zealous man would never have brought this mess to him in the first place.

"Last but not the least, a high-placed crime syndicate member you arrested has made a statement which confirms that future mafia leader Sawada decimated their organization because they had attempted to kidnap the boy named Fuuta because of his clairvoyant skills and/or magical book and that Sawada took exceptional care to destroy their drug factories because he disapproves of drugs. I may be the best at what I do, Smith, but neither am I God nor will I help send a person to a prison for crimes they did not commit, however deserving." He gave the two police his best exasperated eyes, complete with the raised eyebrow.

"The Vongola doesn't go to great lengths to cover their, ah, scientifically challenged indiscretions," Shawn drawled in a way that Alexander found dead sexy. He had a feeling she knew this. "Seriously, don't pretend you are in the dark about this. The Vongola Flame is the worst kept secret in the mafia history. Everybody who is somebody knows of this." She crossed her arms and stepped half a step forward, looming above Alexander. She was very good at looming for a woman her build and height.

Alexander took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose as if to ward off a headache, but truthfully it was simply a mannerism of his. Tension headache was one thing he miraculously didn't suffer from.

"Let's hypothetically say that the Vongola Flame exists and grants its wielders supernatural strength and ability to shoot people to the head without harming them. Let's hypothetically say that the Arcobaleno exist. The say-so of your witnesses still isn't going to be good enough. Something of this magnitude you need to prove or this will be a farce. One of my duties is to advice the police on cases for possible prosecution. Heed my advice, admit your loss and don't lose your face. There will be the next time." Smith growled some more and if looks could kill Shawn's would have frozen him to death, but in the end there was nothing to be done and they all knew it. Alexander was a busy man; he sent them on their way.

He called his secretary and asked her to bring him a bottle of mineral water. While she was walking down to the cafeteria at the first floor Alexander leaned back in his chair. It really was a very comfortable chair and the rosewood-coloured leather upholstery gave him an air of power. Alexander closed his eyes and pitied poor Smith some more. Everyone who was anyone knew, yes, and a few years ago he might have taken part in this crusade out of sheer principle, but things had changed and he had changed. It wasn't that he was bribed, or rather; it wasn't _because_ he was bribed since he didn't turn down the money offered to him. Accepting money to look the other way could only be this safe when the crime family in question was the outrageous The Vongola, but it while it was a nice bonus it wasn't his main motivation.

Two years ago Alexander Lloyd had met Timoteo Vongola. It had been a chance meeting in a small but high-quality London restaurant, a case of overlapping reservations, and somehow they had ended up eating together. They had made fast friends and neither had asked the vocation of the other until at much later date. He should have known, in hindsight, it wasn't as if the man hadn't used his real name, but it went to show that even he could act brainless at times. That had been even more awkward discussion than the one Alexander had held with his mother when she had caught him sneaking out of the window after curfew with a pack of condoms in his pocket when he was sixteen years old.

Alexander was sickly, rather ugly to be frank, caustic and usually the most intelligent person in the room. This winning combination hadn't earned him many friends and none as good as the Vongola Nono. Every man had their price, he knew, and for good or ill his had been met.


	7. Red Herring

**Ten Little Soldiers**

Disclaimer: Not mine and I make no profit.

* * *

**VII: Red Herring**

**Four little Soldier boys going out to sea;  
A red herring swallowed one and then there were three.**

The ship was gently swaying in the waves and Kobayashi Yuriko was feeling a little under the weather. It was the precise kind of motion that set her off. She had travelled on a powerboat as it was cutting through the water and on a sailboat on a windy day and been alright both times, she was alright with the rougher, more violent motion of a rollercoaster and such as fast boats and cars, sport cars having their own special brand of goodness and coolness. But this slow, rolling, swaying movement up and down, left and right, like clockwork… this wasn't so great. It had been alright when the ship had been moving, but now they had arrived to the harbour.

She hadn't noticed how much noise the ship's engines had made anymore, not until they had stopped and the steps and voices of fellow passengers had left them. Only three of the passengers were still on the ship and it was rather lonely feeling. Also, her measles were itching and the cream she had been given wasn't doing much.

"This is an outrage," Shinonome Hisae proclaimed and while she seemed to feel that great many things were outrageous, starting with the cafeteria's food back in the precinct, her erstwhile partner and her mother's repeated attempts to marry her off, Yuriko was with her on this one. "They can't just keep us penned up with that damned pervert like this! This is a barbaric measure!" Her face was peppered with measles also and when it was also flushed with anger the effect was a bit much. Pink sweater wasn't helping any. Yuriko didn't even want to know what she looked like; she avoided looking into the mirror when she had to go to the tissue-sized bathroom.

"Sadly it seems they can," she said when Hisae-sempai paused for breath and looking around in their cabin. There wasn't much to see: two dorm desks, two dorm chairs and a bunk bed, all dull brown and light gray. The ship they were travelling on was rather small, but the size of the cabin hadn't seemed so important when they had thought they wouldn't spend any time there aside from sleeping. The only spot of colour was a painting of a woman standing on a bridge under a starry sky and even that was mostly black and red.

"Let's try positive thinking; at least the door has a lock," she tried to lighten the mood, though in hindsight maybe it wasn't such a good topic as her attempt to placate her friend just set Hisae-sempai off again.

"That perverted, demented excuse of a doctor is the reason we are locked up in here in the first place and then he has the cheek to come on to us and fondle me! If I didn't know the penalties the act carries I would have broken his arm and I may yet be pushed to do so anyway, not that the fascists who are running this ridiculous quarantine even care." Her hands balled into fists and relaxed again, accompanied with a sad sigh that seemed dispirited compared to the rant that had preceded it. There was a good reason to hold them there and Hisae-sempai knew it.

Shinonome Hisae was as beautiful as her name – it was written with the kanji for early dawn and eternal blessing – with her inky black, long hair and big, dewy eyes and the most beautiful ankles and wrists Yuriko had ever seen. Usually she was also quite calm by nature and more reserved when complaining about the many indignities in her life, though definitely nowhere near the Yamato Nadeshiko type, but two days into the quarantine and she was beginning to crack. Yuriko had always been a little envious of her sempai, but now she was counting her blessings. She was homely, but now she also went _mostly_ unmolested.

Also, feeling sick and she couldn't be sure if it was only because when the ship was moving she was fine, but when it was at port and just bobbing in the water she felt ill, or if it was whatever had infected them. The man swore it was harmless and so far it had appeared so, but she wasn't putting much stock into the word of a man who carried around genetically altered bacteria in his coat pockets.

"Damn that doctor and his unidentified disease with :hic: it's stupid :hic: side effects and spots :hic:!" The disease that made them suffer from hiccup at random intervals, in addition to the measles and heightened sense of smell. The smell of the pork sandwich had nearly made Hisae-sempai throw up earlier and Yuriko couldn't bear the smell of tuna now.

"Never fear, I can cure you, beautiful ladies, I have the technology!" loud voice exclaimed and the door opened with a meek creek like it hadn't been locked in the first place. In the doorway stood a man in white laboratory coat, presenting proudly a test tube with some kind of bubblegum pink liquid in it. "I also made ointment for your itchy spots while I was at it. If I may have the honour of applying it on your pearly white skin?" he finished hopefully, fishing a jar that had once held hand lotion, but was now apparently filled with something else, from his pocket. Yuriko didn't even realise she had her slipper in her hand before it was already flying through the air towards the infuriating man's head. I guess I'm angrier than I realized she thought as the man dodged.

"We will rather wait for a legitimate doctor than subject ourselves to anything you have made and if you think I will let you touch my shoelaces you are delusional," she spat, feeling a lot better now that she had gotten it off her chest, but the warm feeling in her chest was crudely interrupted by a hiccup.

"I assure I am professional. I have six hundreds sixty six incurable diseases in my body," the man bragged.

"Dr Shamal," Hisae-sempai said with a much suffering voice and nasty little inflection that suggested she didn't take his claim to the title doctor particularly seriously. "I don't think that suffering from something you can't cure is much of a claim to fame. And just what kind of :hic: maniac invents a disease that gives people measles and hiccup? :hic:"

"Well, I'm not dead despite them being incurable, now am I? And measles and hiccup are what women get from Red Herring. Men would be much worse off," Dr Shamal said with voice that was so casual and reasonable it was rather frightening. Yuriko didn't quite believe in this claim of gender-specific disease, but if it was true then it would be frightening invention. She wasn't even going to ask what it was supposed to do to men.

"And you have even named this. And you :hic: are aware that inventing ne :hic: new diseases is illegal, right?" she asked him pointedly. Dr Shamal beamed at her.

"Of course I do! You lovely ladies arrested me before they put us into quarantine," he answered. Hisae-sempai rose to her feet in a rustle of long skirts and took the man's right ear between her thumb and forefinger and pinched like he was a little, naughty boy.

"So what are you doing here? I'm :hic: taking you back to your cabin where you will remain this time until the police is let into this ship :hic: or help me Kami I will…" Hisea-sempai marched the infuriating man off, the steady flapping of her slippers and her tirade broken by an indignant yelp when the man once again did something perverted.

It really was a pity that man like that had been gifted with such good looks. The first time Yuriko had seen him his roguishly handsome face had made her heart flutter – right until he opened his mouth.

Yuriko leaned back into her pillows and sighed, resisting the urge to scratch herself. It was so very tempting, even as temporary as the relief would be. She took the mineral water bottle from the bedside table instead and unscrewed it, taking three big gulps. The general idea of quarantine was to keep the quarantined in with as little outside contact as possible, a rule a real doctor should have known adhered by, and so they had been hastily supplied water and soft drinks, sandwiches and onigiri before being confined to their cabin. They didn't have a fridge, however, and all the drinks were lukewarm.

"I locked him back into his cabin and put a chair in front of it to keep the door handle up. Good luck we didn't happen upon any unlucky cleaner or cabin boy," Hisae-sempai said as she returned to their cabin and locked the door again. "I think they have vacated the whole section just to be sure." Yuriko nodded; it was quiet enough to be plausible. She handed to bottle to her sempai and made her room beside her.

"Guess what I heard? That man works as a middle school nurse," Yuriko confessed. There was a moment of shocked silence.

"That's it," said Hisae-sempai. "The second the local police gets here I'm having him charged for sexual harassment first and this second. Just on a general principle." That made Yuriko smile and bent down to take a deck of cards from her suitcase next to her bed on the floor. It was going to be a long few weeks even after they were transferred to some facility better suited for holding possibly contagious people than a cruise ship, but at least they had each other for company. She wondered if they would be left out in time for Christmas.

* * *

AN: So Dr Shamal managed to actually get into trouble with the law! Though I expect him to worm his way out of this somehow. Poo, poor policewomen, I bet this scenario didn't come up when they decided to sign up.


	8. Goodwill to All

**Ten Little Soldiers**

Disclaimer: Not mine and I make no profit.

* * *

**Chapter IIX: Goodwill to All**

**T****hree little Soldier boys walking in the zoo;  
A big bear hugged one and then there were two.**

Jacques Bellefleur was sitting at his table in his office and drinking No. 9 from the book Non-alcoholic Drinks for Business Workdays that his brother had gotten for him last Christmas. It was Christmastime again and every December, the Interpol office in Lyon hosted the traditional holiday party for its employees. It was carefully planned and executed to avoid any possible offense; an Aziz Effendi Bismillah ornamentwas put on the plastic Christmas tree next to a porcelain angel and a pewter David's Star was perched on the top. There were Kwanza candeholders on several tables despite the fact that no one who worked in the Lyon office celebrated Kwanza. The party was traditionally enjoyed by the attendees as a chance to skive off for an afternoon in order to have fun at work for once.

Assistant Commissioner Jacques Bellefleur loathed the whole affair as waste of productive working time and he wasn't into the sugarplum-coated tingle tangle in the first place, but as a supervisor he was required to attend. So he was sulking in his office and staring at the letter with familiar handwriting that had arrived the same morning like he suspected it was a letter bomb. But no, he knew it wasn't. It was something much worse.

He was working in Project Millennium, targeting Eurasian criminal organizations. And the infuriating man who had sent the letter was in a leading position in the most infuriating of them.

The Vongola Family wasn't the worst of mafia organisations, really. They weren't any rubbish-movie noble organization, but not dealing in people trafficking and or selling weapons to third world countries still put them an inch above the rest of the lot in Jacques' estimation – but only an inch. What made them so infernally annoying was their tendency to regularly break the laws of physics in such a manner that no court would take evidence provided against their _supernatural criminal activity_ seriously. Iemitsu Sawada – or Sawada Iemitsu as it should properly be said if Jacques cared about property when dealing with the scum of Earth – got on his last nerve because the man insisted that they were friends or friendly rivals at least.

Jacques Bellefleur did _not_ fraternize with the enemy, ever. So he had once saved the man's life? It was his job to save lives, nothing personal there. He would have completed the job by arresting Sawada if the man hadn't spontaneously combusted and hacked his way through a half inch thick steel door with a bloody pickaxe that appeared from bloody nowhere, all of it caught on the surveillance camera tape that was supposed to be key evidence.

Showing hesitance like this was below him so Jacques decided to bite the bullet, took a Swizz army knife from his desk in his hand and pressed it against the envelope, eyeing it with trepidation. Sawada had sent him a vast number of Christmas presents over the years. Year one it had been a phrase book for dirty Japanese, a fancy-looking set of dishes that so small they seemed to be meant for children's play and a hand-weaved basket with palatable goodies: high quality imported coffee, two boxes of impeccable cookies, three boxes of imported and local chocolates, fruit jam, dried fruit, assorted packaged nuts and a bottle of good red wine. Jacques had promptly sent them back to the giver with a note explaining that seasonal smokescreen aside, he was not going to allow himself be bribed. The next year Sawada had made an outlandish donation in Jacques' name to Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation. That Jacques couldn't return and this trend had continued. Damned man didn't seem at all discouraged by the fact Jacques never sent him anything.

Now Jacques Bellefleur'd had the honour of having two buildings, a newsletter and an asteroid named after him and he had been told two priests, three nuns and twenty seven Catholic orphans prayed for his soul every Sunday. It wasn't that he didn't want to be remembered after his death, but being a "friend" of a criminal was no reason to be remembered.

"Now don't be a Scrooge," a merry voice interrupted his thought and Jacques raised his head to see Detective Camille Laveau in the doorway. She had dyed her mousy brown hair red and green and crowned it with an elf hat. "Man up and read the letter and come have fun. Christmas is only once a year!"

Thank God for that, Jacques thought. He didn't think he could bear this more often; luckily Sawada didn't seem inclined to remember him on his birthdays. He waved her away and opened the letter with a sharp rip. It seemed that this year's charity of choice was Amnesty International. He drank what was left of No. 9 and rose from his chair, in search of ingredients for No. 10.

Cheerful songs played on the radio and people were wearing red elf hats and talking cheerfully. Some were working; they were on clock after all. But even they were humming and sipping non-alcoholic mulled wine and munching on gingerbread. Jacques really was feeling like a Scrooge by the time he reached the make-it-yourself cocktail table, but he couldn't help himself. Camille was standing there, speaking with her partner and making a concoction of tonic water and blackberry juice. He grunted his greeting and grabbed a carton of apple juice, orange peels and s spoonful of cinnamon. Someone was singing Bel astre que j'adore, competing with Jingle Bells in volume if not the clearness of the sound.

"What was it this year? I have money riding on the outcome, you know," Heinz asked teasingly, but paled and excused himself in the face of the glare Jacques gave him. Camille sighed. He didn't look at her, she didn't look at him and for a while they enjoyed their drinks in peace.

"Is it really that bad, Jacques? I know this is hard on your pride, but can't you think of it as an ingenious ploy to lure mafia money needed to fund their dirty business into worthwhile causes?" she asked eventually. This gave him a pause. He hadn't ever thought of it like that, but from a certain point of view this was a minor victory, kind of. Money stolen from law-abiding citizens was returned to them.

"Thank you. I will try to see it like that from now on," he promised and stood taller, feeling almost like a weight he had barely been aware of had been lifted from his shoulders. That was when his cell phone rang.

"Assistant Commissioner Jacques Bellefleur," he answered. He didn't believe in sixth sense or any such nonsense – at least until the much accursed Vongola forced him to do so – but he just had the feeling that this was nothing good.

"This is Captain John Fairchild. Concerning the Vittorio Passalacqua case…" the voice dropped into nothingness. Jacques closed his eyes, feeling the first promise of a tension headache to come. Not now, he thought. For once they had managed to nail a Vongola sub boss for something completely mundane, non-fantastical and above all convictable. Even the Vongola Family didn't seem to manage to put a supernatural spin to tax evasion and if someone had messed this case up he was going to make shoes from their hide.

"A lion ate the evidence, sir," the voice choked out. It was almost drowned by a bell-clear woman's voice that sang _Douce nuit, sainte nuit! Dans les cieux! L'astre lui _from the radio.

"A lion ate MY EVIDENCE?" The room was silenced between one heartbeat and the second. They knew there was very limited number of people who could make something like this happen and most them were either in the Vongola or allied to it.

"A lion broke into the building somehow, sir. It was on fire. The lion, not the building, sir. And it ate the evidence." They were both breathing hard now.

_C'est l'amour infini, C'est l'amour infini !_

"A flaming lion ate my evidence!" he bellowed and everyone in the room covered, trying to make themselves as small as possible. Oh yeah, Merry Christmas and fucking Happy New Year, Vongola style.


	9. With the Burning Intensity of the Sun

**Ten Little Soldiers**

Disclaimer: Not mine and I make no profit.

* * *

**Chapter IX: With the Burning Intensity of the Sun**

**Two Little Soldier boys sitting in the sun;****  
One got frizzled up and then there was one**.

It didn't snow often in Namimori, the city was too far in the south for long, cold winters, but the night had been freezing and the chill lingered and the ground was covered by thin layer of snow that glittered in the morning sun like someone had knocked over a treasure chest full of diamonds. It wouldn't last; the next day the warm winds from the south would turn the ground into a mess of melting snow and dirt, but for now the world was white and pure like a bridal kimono.

Hiwatari Takeshi was standing in front of the Namimori Middle School and feeling rather tired and cranky. He had woken up to some maniac jogger yelling "TO THE EXTREME" outside his window in a voice that could probably be heard from the other side of the city. He had jumped up in his bed, his heart beating rapidly in his chest, and all sleep had been effectively banished from his mind. It had still been dark and one look to the glowing numbers of his alarm clock had told him it was 5:30 am. He had fallen back into the bed, groaning, but hadn't fallen back asleep again.

He was standing in front of the Namimori Middle School and feeling more than a little foolish. Namimori prefectural police had previously participated in joint operations with Interpol and DIA due to the leader of one of the Vongola crime family's most secretive divisions originating from the city and his family still living there. The Vongola was widely reputed in certain circles for their eccentric choice in allies and affiliates, but he couldn't believe his superiors had actually agreed with this. The police inspector had sent a police officer undercover as a PE teacher so he could covertly investigate a middle school boxing club.

Sawada Tsunayoshi, son of Sawada Iemitsu, went to this school, true, and he was even rumoured to have been earmarked as the next leader of the Vongola. He was also a friend of Sasagawa Ryohei, the president of the Namimori Boxing Club. Even then, they were middle schoolers and as unconventional as the Vongola could be this went beyond unbelievable and straight into ludicrous. It had also been difficult to arrange. Japan wasn't a police state and Namimori Middle School wasn't a criminal organization, which meant they couldn't simply lie to his new employers about who he was and what he was doing there. Takeshi was counting his blessings; he wasn't the poor bastard who'd had to explain this to the teaching staff.

It was their luck the previous PE teacher had just moved to another town, though whether good or bad was anyone's guess.

He had received his orders and he would fulfill them to his best capacity. That was all that could be asked of him.

He could see a few students already in the hallway, all rather delinquent-looking,, which surprised him greatly. Takeshi knew one should never judge book by its cover, but with hair like that… they were all wearing red armband on their right arm that read Namimori Discipline Committee. He didn't have time to ponder this mystery longer, however, since he was ambushed by the principal. He was nondescript middle-aged man with glasses and graying hair. He could have been anyone's neighbour, worked at any company or convenience store or, indeed, school. He was staple like rice or bread, Takeshi thought. He would have hated to try and track this man based by description.

"I am Kawano Kunio, the principal of this school. I am pleased to meet you, Hiwatari-san," he said politely, but looked apprehensive more than anything.

"I am glad you agreed to have me here. I will make sure to teach the students to my best capacity," he promised in his turn, praying silently that the principal didn't ask any more questions about this insanity. And he didn't, but the glances he kept stealing in a manner that was far from covert didn't reassure him much.

In truth, Takeshi had known to expect this. This kind of reaction was the reason he had arrived at seven am. Even though his first class begun at ten; to give the teaching staff time to get the initial awkwardness out of their system. He made sure to speak with everyone in the common room and stretched his small talking skills to their limits, but in the end he had to concede that two hours were too short a time. But it turned out to not be complete waste of his time as he noticed certain peculiarities as he listened in on the teachers during their spare time. A student named Kyoya Hibari, the one leading this Discipline Committee, was mentioned several times in hushed voices, but then the teachers in question had looked at him, turned their gaze quickly away and changed the topic or simply fallen silent. Interesting. If Takeshi remembered right Kyoya-san's name was also connected to Sawada-san's and so he made a few conversational openings.

Sasagawa Ryohei's name only caused long-suffering sighs and remarks about how enthusiasm and industry were things to have, but there was also such a thing as too much enthusiasm and industry. Gokudera Hayato's name, however, caused Kyoya-esque reactions. He wondered about it for a few moments before shaking his head. He shouldn't let perfectly normal school problems cloud his judgement.

Sawada-san's name caused no reaction at all. It was like the teachers had a hard time trying to remember who he was.

Takeshi learned that the lights in the gym took about five minutes to turn on, brightening slowly like a sun rising to the sky and shuddering like they might burn out at any moment. The first class he had was for the first years and he didn't turn the light off after, but the second was the one Sasagawa Ryohei attended. Originally the plan had been to play soccer outside, but due to the snow and the unexpected cold the school's winter gym clothes couldn't quite protect the students from he had his classes playing basketball in the gym instead. The boys walked into the gym talking animatedly, though they soon fell silent, peering their new teacher curiously. Takeshi hadn't really understood the words of the teachers before he saw the tall, light-haired boy with a band aid on his nose, but there was no mistaking those springy steps and wide hand gestures, that voice…

"I'm EXTREMELY happy to meet you, Hiwatari-sensei, and I will EXTREMELY give my all to be a good student to the EXTREME!"

It was him. The maniac jogger who had woken him up that morning. Takeshi felt a twitch develop in the corner of his eyes.

"I am glad to hear that, Sasagawa-san. I am your new PE teacher Hiwatari Takeshi and I am pleased to be here and teach you. Please form a line, everyone, and step forward and tell me your names." Sasagawa-san ushered his teammates – or strong armed, Takeshi thought – into an alphabetical line and he checked everybody's name from the student roster he had been given. All were present and accounted for and so he told them to count to four and form four teams.

Soon the class had been divided up into quarters, and he had one half doing push-ups while the other half was playing. Sasagawa-san's team had the first turn to play and it wasn't a coincidence. Both teams, in their identical gym uniforms, chattered excitedly before a whistle blew and the game began. The other side had one less player than Sasagawa-san's since all had agreed it would only work towards lessening the unfair advantage a little.

He gestured a student named Sakuragi Kyo to take the ball. The tall, coltish-awkward boy smiled with more trepidation than pride and took a ready stance with the ball. When all were in position Takeshi whistled sharply. Sakuragi-san faked right, then went around another student's left. That was the moment to stop to take her shot – half of the gym didn't make for a very big court – but that was when Sasagawa-san leapt at him and knocked the ball out of his hands, leapt to the basket and dunked the ball through, whooping victoriously. Soon he raced towards the end basket again, dribbling the ball as fast as he could and that was fast. And he blocked the poor member of the other team and took the ball, and he took a shot and it went in with a big loud swoosh. Before the first five minutes were over the game was already eleven zero and Takeshi had to conclude it was less team one against team two and more Sasagawa-san against team two. He blew his whistle again and the game ceased, the whole class turning to look at him.

"Maybe you should let your team participate also, Sasagawa-san. Unlike boxing, basketball is a team sports," he admonished.

"I am sorry, Hiwatari-sensei. I just forget that easily." He honestly drooped. Takeshi felt a niggle of pity in his mind and, besides, he should get to know the boy better at any rate. A close mentor-student relationship would be ideal.

"There is another set of baskets. Sakuragi-san, please switch teams so they will be even. I will practice with Sasagawa-san."

The boy immediately brightened and run to the equipment storeroom to get another ball. Takeshi had always liked sports very much and while basketball wasn't his favourite he was proficient at it.

"At your pleasure," he said and gestured towards the basket at his back with his head. Sasagawa-san grinned blindingly. Takeshi had only just enough time to think that his healthy habits extended to good dental hygiene and then the game was ON.

Sasagawa-san got the first two points, jumping to hang from the basket and dunking the ball inside. Takeshi gritted his teeth and managed to even the score. He had obviously been careless. He started to dribble the ball again when Sasagawa-san lunged and if he had been quick before now he was night unbelievable. For a second Takeshi could have sworn he saw something like pale almost-yellow flames flickering in the boy's wake and that moment of surprise cost him the ball as Sasagawa-san struck it from his hands and scooped it up. The student had gotten behind his back so quickly turning his head gave Takeshi a whiplash. His breath came heavily, but not uneven yet as he gave his new student a tight, appreciative smirk and accepted the ball for a new round. He faked left and run, his opponent at his heels.

He evened the score. Sasagawa got a lead again and this went on and on. His legs started to feel like lead, clumsy and heavy, and then his steps became springy again. The ball was rough against his palms when Sasagawa-san stole it from him and he could feel it dream-clear. He could barely believe this was true. He could keep up with Sasagawa-san, but not surpass him. He could even the core again and again, but he didn't get a lead once.

He was a police officer and he wasn't going to lose to a middle schooler, his pride wouldn't allow it. He had reached that point where his body moved freely and as light as a feather. Sasagawa-san jumped with strength and precision that surprised him and when he dribbled with all his admittedly extreme might it sounded like automatic fire against the wooden floor. The ball slipped from Sasagawa-san's hands and bounced. Once. Twice. Snatched! Takeshi had the ball now and he was dribbling it, throwing it, evening the score! He turned to look at the younger boy and saw the same excitement in his eyes, sheer joy in the motion. He smiled, sweating like a pig and laughing breathlessly.

The chime of the school bell sounding broke the spell. Takeshi's world had narrowed down to him, Sasagawa-san, the ball and their baskets, but now he was again aware of the open space around them and the eyes of the students who were… applauding? He felt colour rising to his cheeks, but above all else he couldn't believe a mere student had made him go all out like that. He was breathing so heavily that for a second he thought he couldn't possibly speak. He wondered if the students had switched turns at playing basketball at all or if they had just watched them play.

"That was an EXTREME match, Hiwatari-sensei! You must join the Namimori Middle EXTREME boxing club!" Sasagawa-san shouted, bouncing up and down. His white shirt was barely sweaty at all. Takeshi couldn't believe it.

"I'm a teacher, Sasagawa-san, the clubs are for students. Now everybody go to the shower, you still have school after this," he commanded his chattering students, only realising after he had been left alone that he had just missed a prime chance to infiltrate the boxing club. He was torn between thwacking himself over the head and grinning like a loon, because hard on his pride or not, that had been the best match any single opponent had ever given him.

He needn't have worried about lost opportunities. Sasagawa-san cornered him in the hallway after his lessons were over and renewed his offer/demand, this time with more volume and accompanied by a grab on his wrist to physically drag him away. He was a strange kid, much too loud and disrespectful, but he also radiated good will and childish energy all around him like a puppy and Takeshi found liking him much easier than it by all rights should have been. He would have found it worrisome if this had been a serious mission.

Rather than back to the gym Takeshi noticed that Sasagawa-san was dragging him out. He asked about it and Sasagawa-san explained that the training was going to begin with an interval training variation three: sports conditioning. First five minutes light jogging for warm up, then running two minutes at moderate or high intensity followed by two minutes low intensity, thirty seconds of high intensity followed by thirty seconds low intensity repeated four times, then ten sixty yard dashes followed by ninety second rest and five minutes cool down. Takeshi was common with this method of training; in addition of making more well-rounded runners it helped to improve an exercisers' aerobic capacity to exercise longer at varying intensities. He hadn't expected a middle school boxing club act so professionally, though after one class with Sasagawa-san he probably should have.

During the day the students had trampled the pristine white snow into sleet under their feet. And there, among the small footprints of preteens, were footprints of some kind of animal. They weren't very clear, but the hind legs had long, narrow feet with two toes and the smaller, roundish prints were either front legs or from different animal entirely. Unresisting, Takeshi allowed Sasagawa-san to lead him, wondering what kind of Japanese animal could make tracks like that. They turned around the corner of the school and abruptly Takeshi stood still like he had walked into a wall. The students were all standing under a few trees, jumping up and down and stretching, but what that huge shape hopping around them eagerly? It was a kangaroo. A huge, two meters tall kangaroo with reddish-brown fur that faded to pale buff yellow on the limbs. And that wasn't all. Someone had tied very real-looking double-barrel cannon to its back, shoulder pats to its shoulders and bright blue boxing gloves to its front legs.

"A kangaroo," he spoke out loud. His tongue had some difficulty forming the unexpected word. He was fairly sure he had gone at least the last five years of his life without once thinking or speaking the word kangaroo.

He wondered if this counted as animal cruelty. In any case, having a kangaroo as a pet had to be illegal.

"Kangaryuu is our EXTREME mascot!" Sasagawa-san exclaimed and punched the air.

But the worst shock had yet to come. Takeshi almost didn't see it, so overwhelming was the entirety of Kangaryuu, but once noticed it made his mouth dry and heart skip a beat. On Kangaryuu's forehead was a round gold-coloured jewel with the Vongola crest engraved on it. And, he thought, I have a bad feeling about that double-barrel cannon. It looked awfully real.

How could this be? Namimori Middle School Boxing Club was an organized crime affiliate and not to any garden variety small town gang either.

"No animals other than class pets allowed on school grounds," cold, menacing voice sounded from behind Takeshi, making him jump a little and squeak in a very embarrassing manner. He turned around to meet the steady, unemotional eyes of the Discipline Committee leader Kyoya Hibari. The boy stood still, but all the same seemed to occupy much greater space than his small body too by the sheer personality he emitted. He didn't seem particularly surprised to see a tank-like kangaroo on school grounds.

"Kangaryuu is the boxing club's mascot. Besides, the Discipline Committee has Roll and all students deserve the same rights to the EXTREME," Sasagawa-san protested. Kyoya-san only snorted and allowed tonfa slide out from both of his sleeves.

"I'll bite you to death," he growled and struck with speed that only just allowed Takeshi enough time to process that there was going to be a fight that needed to be prevented or someone would be seriously injured or even die. He straightened and shifted his weight from one leg to another, but his step forward was halted when Sasagawa-san blocked the steel tonfa with his bare knuckles, and blocked again and again and again. He ducked out of the way along with the boxing club members, listening to the fleshy slams and the clanging of metal hitting something hard with a sick feeling to his stomach. And Sasagawa-san was laughing the same innocent, delighter laugh he had when they had played basketball.

"Not again," a boy Takeshi didn't know by name groaned beside him. Again, he wanted to ask, but then the insanity got upped another notch.

The kangaroo joined the fray, cutting in from the left and giving a mighty kick of one muscular hind leg. Visions of the kick tearing open the dark-haired student's stomach flashed through Takeshi's mind, but Kyoya-san jumped nimbly backwards and pulled handcuffs from his pocket. A flash of purple light and then the boy wasn't holding handcuffs anymore, but a hedgehog. Takeshi's eyes saw it, but his mind refused to profess it. Hedgehog, hedgehog, hedgehog, it chanted. It had to be smoke and mirrors, some kind of sleight of hand, but why a hedgehog? Kyoya-san threw the animal towards the charging kangaroo before attacking the Sasagawa-san, who had gentlemanly waited for him to finish throwing his animal, again. For a moment he was torn between watching the boys and the animals, but then there were two hedgehogs rather than one. Then four, eight, possibly sixteen and then a veritable brown wave of cute, spiny animals attempted to crash over the kicking, punching marsupial.

"This happens every day. You get used to it, sensei," the boy said and grabbed his shoulder in a way that was meant to be comforting.

"Every day?" Takeshi groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. No wonder the teaching staff had accepted him. They had most likely been completely desensitized to anything strange and desperate for a new teacher. Not that he intended to stay. He would leave the second he found a way to tie the boxing club, armed kangaroo and self-multiplying handcuff-hedgehogs to the Vongola. A fool-proof, bulletproof and attorney-proof way just so no one would have a reason to send him back.


	10. Times Past

**Ten Little Soldiers**

Disclaimer: Not mine and I make no profit.

* * *

**Chapter X: Times Past**

**One little Soldier boy left all alone;  
He went out and hanged himself and then there were none.**

Croccifisso Panforte was sitting in his living room in front of a webcam, waiting for a call from Palermo. He wasn't that fond of the new, breakable, expensive, high-maintenance technology, but when you are one hundred and one travelling isn't just unnecessary evil, it's just plain not worth it. Oh, he was surely the springiest, healthiest man his age in whole Italy, as his many grandchildren who had tried and failed to send him off to a retirement home could attest. He had always known that having a mortal enemy was good for something. He refused to kick the bucket, or become bedridden for that matter, before Talbot-with-no-surname did and he clung to his independence with his Dying Will.

Talbot has entered the chat room; a message alerted him to the presence of his interlocutor. Croccifisso clicked on the small camera icon that appeared in the chat window and clicked on a contact from his Contact List, then clicked Invite to View My Webcam. The new IM window with his webcam active opened. He clicked the View Webcam link. Then he was lefts staring, eyes bulging in disbelief.

"What have you done to your hair?" Croccifisso asked in lieu of a greeting. Gone was the long hair that had reached the old mafia man's shoulders and in its stead was almost wholly shaved head and a Mohawk. A tall Mohawk that looked like Talbot had used half of a hairspray bottle to hold it up like that. At least he had refrained from dying it.

"I thought this would make me look rock," Talbot said smugly. The thing was, combined with those little bird skulls the effect was kind of impressive if one went for the Ozzy Osbourne looks.

"I think it makes you look stupid," he said instead. He was very proud of the fact he hadn't balded any and his hair was impressive steel shine gray that made his haircut resemble a helmet. He would never have mauled it like that.

"You would." Talbot might as well have said that he had always been a bore. Croccifisso bit his teeth together and let it go. They always tried to end their bi-monthly calls on a good note.

There had been time when Croccifisso wouldn't have spat on Talbot if the man had been on fire and the sentiment had been returned, but times changed and people changed. Now Croccifisso was an old man. His wife was dead, all his four children were dead and no parent should have to bury their children, ever. His old friends were dead, the films he had watched no one recognized – even the Oscar winning Wings had been forgotten by all but silent film enthusiasts. When he said he had heard Rhapsody in Blue orchestrated by Ferde Grofé all he received was a blank look. He had once been inspired by Benito Mussolini and dreadfully disillusioned, but even his grandchildren had no time to hear his stories of his time in Resistenza as a member of Giustizia e Libertà Brigades. All his enemies and adversaries were dead now save one. He didn't know how many people Talbot had lost, but now they were the only ones left from the Golden Twenties when men were hotheaded and life was wild.

Talbot wasn't retired since mafia didn't really believe in retirement, but Croccifisso was and that was good enough for them.

"So, how has your life been lately," Talbot begun the conversation after a while.

"Joints ache like crazy when it rains or the winds blows from north, but you didn't need me to tell you that," Croccifisso grumbled and Talbot winced in sympathy. Old age didn't come alone. "A few burglars tried to break into my home two days ago," he continued.

"I think I saw something about it in the news," Talbot muses and Croccifisso nods, smiling grimly. It had been past midnight and he had risen to get a glass of water when he had heard strange noises coming from the hall. He had taken his cane, sturdy, old-fashioned thing made of oak with a bronze head shaped like an eagle's. The lock had given in when he had gotten halfway to the door and a group of disreputable-looking men in slashed jeans had barged in. In the morning, the traffic was jammed when the police found five young gang members tied into a lamp post with their own silly, fashionable chain belts. The criminals had begged for mercy, all of them bruised and concussed, making baffling comments about how terrifying the elders were these days and a cane that had caught fire.

What a shame that was, Croccofisso though, that he had only found his Dying Will of Flame so late in life. He had been over eighty already when he had slipped and fallen down on icy stairs, fallen down badly and broken his leg in eight places. His doctor had said that he would never walk again. He had disagreed strongly. If only he had been a young man, the things he could have done. Talbot had laughed at him, told that he was too thick headed to have got it earlier, but Croccifisso was almost sure that secretly the man was impressed.

They started talking about good old times just like every time they called. They talked about the Great War, Croccifisso about hiding in the mountains with the boys and blowing up railways and Nazi tanks and Talbot about how the Ottavo had guided her family through those perilous years. She hadn't much cared for Nazis or homegrown fascists either; her Rain and Lightning Guardians had been Jewish and her Mist Guardian had been a Gypsy.

"They don't make women like her anymore. Or like Andrea Herrera. Remember her?" Talbot asked with a wistful voice and even after all these decades Croccifisso felt a shiver going up his spine. He closed his eyes and he could see ser standing in the sunlight before him, smiling in her green and yellow sundress. Her lovely dark doe eyes in her delicate face, her dark hair combed in an elegant way, the figure she carried with pride and her mischievous smile. He opened his eyes.

"There was no other," he said simply. Her mastery of the fine art of class wasn't what they remembered her for, however.

She had been a ballet dancer and an agent for the Resistenza, transporting secret messages in her ballet slippers and performing in a series of secret ballets called to raise money for the rebels and their underground war. Once she had volunteered to rendezvous with a British paratrooper hiding in the forests of Valle d'Aosta. Her cover had been strolling through the countryside, innocently picking wildflowers, and when a soldier had caught and questioned her she had avoided official interrogation basically by being adorable. They had both met her during the war and they had both loved her, but in the end neither had gotten her. She had fallen in love with an American soldier after the war and moved with him to New York.

"They are now saying I used to know the Primo, you know," Talbot broke the silence.

"They think you are four hundred years old?" Croccifisso asked, disbelieving. He didn't bother to ask who "they" were.

"Kids these days. No grasp of mathematics." Talbot shruuged and Croccifisso had to agree. His great-granddaughter thought she was saving money when she waited for sale and then used two hundred Euros for clothes. Her parents were much too indulging. He had obviously spoiled the whole lot of them.

The conversation was slowly dying down. They didn't have any set time reserved for their calls. They spoke as long as they felt like speaking and when they didn't they disconnected.

"I still hate you," Talbot said conversationally. Like Croccifisso's greeting, it might not have been traditional, but they both recognized it for what it was. Croccifisso's smile bared his white, even rows of teeth. They weren't his own teeth anymore, but Talbot didn't need to know that.

"I hate you too," he said. The thing was, they did, but for them talking with each other was like they had been running around in the dark with his hands stretched out, groping blindly, and then someone had turned on the lights. "Friends" and "like" didn't really compare to that.

* * *

AN: Andrea Herrera is homage for my hero Audrey Hepburn who worked for the Dutch resistance during the World War II and really did all that, except for the marriage. She was plain too amazing for words.


End file.
